


Worm Juice

by silvered_glass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Clubbing, Draco is just trying to 'make good' in a quiet but wildly successful manner, Draco works with soil but doesn't like getting his hands dirty, Drinking, Gardening, Harry is a little lost at this point of his life, Home Improvement, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Not Epilogue Compliant, Powerful Harry, Recreational Drug Use, There will be smut and I will update tags as we go, Treatment for Depression, Weddings, but it's causing some issues tbh, music of the early 2000's, pubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-03
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-10-14 09:47:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10533954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvered_glass/pseuds/silvered_glass
Summary: Your mid-twenties are as good a time as any to have a bit of a delayed breakdown. Maybe take up an interest in gardening. Maybe take up an interest in your arch nemesis..Harry isn’t sure what he’s doing; Draco has built a home and a business on the ruins of his old one and isolation; Pansy is back in town; Luna is dying her clothes with Parvati’s tea; Blaise is the most suave & handsome rock of a friend & business partner a partially exiled wizard can depend upon; Neville can never catch a good moment to have a chat with Harry but despite that is constantly changing the poor guy’s life and Hermione and Ron, well, just as always, thank Merlin for Hermione and Ron.It’s a gangs-all-here tale encompassing a little of that reassessment that happens when your pre-frontal cortex fully grows, a bit of dealing with matters from the past & their repercussions, a lot of the type of social events that everyone-you-ever-knew turns up to and far more discussion about soil quality than Draco appreciates quite frankly.Mainly Harry POV but some Draco POV





	1. Prologue

Autumn 2001   

The gate creaks when he opens it. Actually, it's more of a screech, a high whine which for a moment makes Draco's skin goose bump and his shoulders tense. It's a grating noise that's far too reminiscent of the screams and cries that used to echo around the Manor, an eerie welcome home.

It used to be that Draco could just walk through the gates, their physical form melding and almost tenderly bringing him inside the grounds, but he himself had changed the wards after his father's death to not allow automatic entrance to anyone, even he, the new head of the House of Malfoy.   

There is a gentle drizzle falling but Draco can't get his wand free to cast a protection charm as he's weighed down with his bags. He should have shrunk them earlier. His plan had been to call into Gringotts to advise them of his arrival back in England. But having cleared the inspection point at International Portkey Arrivals smoothly when he began to make his way towards the lifts to go down to the central Atrium he’d started to notice people noticing him.

 

He'd spent so long being comfortably anonymous while he was overseas and it had been very strange to feel people's eyes on him as he made his way along the corridor and waited at the lifts. He was attempting to abide it at first. Allowed his to lip curl, almost instinctively, into a very slight but haughty snarl, but his pulse had picked up pace and a he felt a little hot and he just stepped into the first lift which arrived and found himself traveling up and across instead of down one floor.

Two middle aged witches had got in at Level 5West, both wearing badges saying they worked in the  _Department of Bells, Whistles and all other Accessories_. They'd taken one look at him and started whispering while shooting disapproving glances and Draco’s stomach had turned over with nausea. He never should have left his mother, he should have stayed in Italy. Why the fuck did he have to be so stubborn and so prone to grand gestures.

The doors had next opened on Level 2West and the sign on the wall opposite proclaimed that amongst other offices this floor offered access to  _Apparition Point 2BWest_  and Draco had made a sudden instinctive choice. With urgently issued apologies he'd pushed his way out of the lift.    

He'd walked as fast as decorum would allow down a long corridor, some witches and wizards taking note of him and one even doing such an exaggerated double take that Draco would have laughed if he hadn't been feeling sick from the rising nausea his anxiety had been causing. Instead he'd rounded the corner without pause and barrelled straight into the fucking Saviour of the Wizarding World.  

Of course.

He'd been faced with a pair of green eyes wide in shock behind their spectacle frames and two firm hands grasping his arms just above his elbows to steady him as he almost went head over heels backwards on his arse.

"Malfoy! Careful!" Potter had exclaimed and Draco had felt the strong hands squeeze an imperceptible amount before he’d made a sharp move to shake off Potter's hold.

"Potter." He'd replied, the scathing tone coming as naturally and instantly as the look of disdain which he'd let fall over his features like a mask whilst in the lift.   

Potter had made a sort of humph noise and stepped back, bending to pick up one of the bags that Draco had dropped, "Back from a trip Malfoy? Welcome home." Potter had said as casually as if they’d been colleagues in the tea room. Draco had snatched it from his hand, their fingers brushed on the handle as he did so, and Draco remembers he'd felt something in the touch. He'd looked up a Potter quickly, tried to asses if he'd just tried to put some sort of a wordless jinx on him, but the git had just been smiling a hesitant crooked smile at him.   

It was disconcerting and Draco hadn't liked it one bit.   

"You'll excuse me Potter." He'd managed to spit out and lugging his bags uncomfortably he’d taken the few steps over to the marked out the Apparition space. Turning around he'd found himself staring straight at Potter who hadn't yet moved from the spot where they had collided. He'd just been standing there with an odd half smile on his face and his hand raised as if to wave goodbye to him.

Extremely disconcerting.

Draco had not reacted to Potter's oddness, had instead thought determinedly of the Manor and felt the harsh crush and pull of Disapparition take hold. 

 

"Bloody Potter" he mutters out loud as he crunches his way along the gravel driveway leading to the house. The hedges along the drive are over grown and the grass beyond them is high and untended. Compared to the current dryness that Tuscany had been experiencing everything seems very green. Green, silent and echoingly empty.

It is still in the way only a place that is abandoned can be.

 

҉

 

Come 10pm and Draco is wandering the along the blue hallway on the first floor. It’s a wide space, carpeted in a blue Persian runner with doors opening off either side. This is the hall that leads to the family’s private rooms. His own bedroom suite is at the far end, and Draco has just stumbled out of his father’s private study.   

His shirt is unbuttoned and askew, Firewhisky bottle in one hand and wand in the other, his hair is un-styled and being tossed by the wind that is rushing past him. The wind is due to the fact that he’s just finished going into every room on the second floor, including the other wing where the drawing rooms and library are, and shot a tidy  _Reducto_  at every large lead glass window.    

There’s a voice yelling at him on the left and without stopping he throws a  _Diffindo_ at the portrait of the shouting great uncle. The canvas rips in a noisy satisfying way but this only triggers further shrieks and sobs from the other portraits that hang in the hall.    

Draco pays them no head.    

He flicks his wand at a spindly legged antique Queen Anne table and it transfigures into a sled. He drags it to the top of the stairs and stowing his whisky bottle between his thighs, he pushes himself off the edge and down the marble steps. Moving at speed he yells out a wild scream, louder and louder as he rides down the wide long staircase. His heart is beating a loud thump and his stomach turning with nerves and adrenaline and the Firewhisky.

Draco lets out a yell, a huge echoing whoop, and lifts his arms up, whisky in his left hand and splashing out all over him. The sled bounces painfully as it lands on the marble foyer and slides an uncontrollable path across the polished floor, a deep groove scratched in its wake as it turns and at speed curves towards one of the wainscot clad walls.    

 

He wakes a little later. He’s on his stomach; face down on the cold floor with the weight of the sled on top of his left leg. He moves his hand to lift his body up and presses his palm firmly into a shard of glass.   

“Fuck!” Holding his hurt hand out from his body Draco manages to right himself and blinks blearily in the semi-darkness. “ _Accio_  wand.” His voice sounds strange, rough, but it’s enough, his wand flies into his hand, warm and safe the way it has always felt to him.   

Potter. Bloody Potter. Of course  _he’d_  been there today. Always skulking round corridors that one.

 

Potter had given it back to him, given him back his wand. Of all the days, he’d done it when the Aurors had finally brought Draco in for questioning after the war.    

His father was in Azkaban and his Mother had spent the week prior giving statements and pensive memories and being examined and cross examined and then dismissed with, at that time, no word about if there would be further action taken against her or not.   

Then they’d come for Draco.    

He’d held his back straight and pinched the inside of his left arm during the morning’s questioning, reminding himself that it was real, making sure to keep himself present, not letting himself close off as he had trained himself to do all those months at the manor. He knew he needed to be open and truthful with these people. Now was not a time to hide behind his mask in an attempt to protect himself. So he answered their questions quietly. With truth. He let them inside his mind to verify his words.

Veritaserum or legilimency, he chose legilimency. It seemed fitting to allow this to be used against him for one last time, having lived through The Dark Lord using it when the mood struck him all those months at the Manor, controlling; stealing Draco's mind from him. There had been no sanctuary even in his own head, and Draco looked for none when he gave his evidence either.

They’d been bringing him out of the interview room, escorting him to have his lunch when he’d bumped into Potter. In fact, now he thinks of it, it had been very like their encounter that morning. Potter barrelling around like the entitled prat he’d always been. Rushing as if only he,  _The Bloody Git Who Lived_ , had anywhere important to be; after all no-one could compete with whatever  _The Saviour_  was doing at any particular moment.   

Potter had come to a sudden halt and Draco can still remember the way he’d swallowed looking away for a moment, almost as if he was a bit nervous. But he quickly regained his typical Gryffindor brashness, staring directly at him, the overhead lights glinting a little off his spectacle frames and while running a hand through his mess of hair he'd said, “Right. Good. Draco. Got something of yours.”   

Then Potter had reached inside his ratty muggle denim jacket and pulled out Draco’s wand, handing it over as if he’d been returning a lent quill.   

Of all things, Potter had muttered a muted, “Thanks for letting me borrow that.” And before Draco could even comprehend what had happened he’d moved past them and along the corridor.   

Of course, the Aurors interviewing him had confiscated it straight away, the wand barely even resting in Draco’s grasp for moment. But after his case was brought before the Wizengmort, and finalised within the hour thanks to submitted testimony from Potter, Lovegood, his mother’s pensive memories and the testimony of the Aurors who had interviewed him, he’d been given it back; So along with his sentence of Community Service and some fairly strict Good Magical Behaviour Bonds he took home his actual wand.  

 _Article Y441.7Bbf-Hawthorn/Unicorn Hair-_ _Malfoy,D_ _. Of Note; Wand used by_ _H.Potter_ _to disarm_ _T.Riddle aka Lord Voldemort aka_ He Who Must Not Be Named _02/05/1998_  had been written on a Ministry issue green envelope, inside of which was his wand. As warm and as right as ever. 

 

Draco’s in the dining room. The chill in the air is present here too, despite the windows being intact. Draco flicks his wand and sconces flicker into flame. He turns and surveys the empty room.    

The huge table, once polished to a high shine and often host to a million pieces of cutlery of which he never quite got the order of use correc,t despite his mother’s coaching and pointed looks during dinner parties, is dented and damaged. Burn marks and chunks of wood missing are missing from it’s surface. The chandelier had never been rehung, the fireplace never been relit. Draco had seen people die in this room. He had been tortured and he had tortured others. He had seen all hope fall away. He had seen how nothing new or good could be.   

Dark unmitigated anger and sorrow tear through his body and core, he can feel a sweat break across his forehead, he’s all of a sudden too hot despite the cold. He throws his arm out in a violent gesture and with hand trembling he throws a wild  _ExpulsoMaxima_ at the table and stands transfixed as it explodes into blue light and fragments of wood, some in flames as they soar across the room.   

His heart is beating wildly as he spins in place, sweeping unpractised wand movements and casting spells recklessly, screaming the incantations out. He turns his wand to the marble mantelpiece, the mounted Erumpet head that hung on the opposite wall, to the many huge double height windows and French doors; one after another light shoots from his wand and following it immediately is shattering and destruction. Draco is crying. His breathing uneven and his fury and grief is poured into every sob, poured into every desperate cry of his curses.

The last huge lead window shatters and finally he turns his wand on the flagstone floor itself. Shooting curse after curse wildly and without aim at the ground, huge cracks; almost chasms opening up to the earth below. The air is full of smoke and dust. It smells of burning wood and wool from the tapestry that is now shredded, flapping in the wind. Draco throws one huge last arm movement and yells so that his voice breaks and the resulting crack shakes through the stone floor like an earth quake, ripping the ground open and running a huge crack up the wall itself.

Draco drops to his hands and knees, palms falling heavily flat on the dirt and rubble as he lets his sobs consume his body.    

Moments still.

Draco weeps on.

But desperate gulping breaths and howling cries slow, change to softer noises. Until with a last whimper Draco raises his face to the ceiling, sniffs a horrid sounding snot filled breath and then sits back on his haunches.

 

His hand is stinging. He points his wand at it and mutters  _Aguamenti,_  cleaning the wound on his palm. He fishes in his right pocket for his handkerchief, pulls out a handful of what feels like tiny pebbles, finds the monogrammed linen in his left pocket, and with some fumbling and using his teeth and right hand he ties it round his left palm.   

He stands slowly and turns to leave the room, his eye caught for a moment by his own reflection in the huge mirror hanging over the now destroyed mantelpiece. He's pale and red eyed, streaked with dirt and there is blood on his shirt.

It’s not the worst he’s looked in this room.   

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm [Silvered Glass](https://silveredglass.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to chat.


	2. Blur & All Saints

Spring 2003 – Out of Time/Blur

   

It starts because of Neville really. Quietly heroic, good natured, increasingly-handsome-as-the-years-go-by bloody Neville.

Harry's standing next to him, both of them staring out over the field that lays to the west of the Burrow. They had been standing in a perfectly nice little group with Ron and George, chatting about Sirius’s bike and how Harry was going with the repairs (he hasn’t done any work on it for at least eight months, but it’s good for small talk so Harry doesn’t mention that part.) And then they'd moved on to George's recent trip to Ibiza, the clubs he’d played in and explaining to a fascinated Neville the concept of a foam party. Then inevitably they'd turned to last week’s Quidditch matches.   

There'd been a soft warm breeze tumbling round the yard and floating over from the patio that George paid to have put in last summer and where Arthur is barbecuing sausages and chops, had been the sound of Ginny, Hermione and Luna’s laughter. Their voices intermingling with the sound of Blur, playing loudly from the open windows of the Burrow’s kitchen.

Yup, they had been all having a perfectly nice time. Not uncomfortable, not silences that stretched a little too long. But then six minutes ago George had sniffed the air and announced that he was _'going to go check that Dad isn't burning those chops too much.'_

And even that had been ok, the group and the conversation stopped being _perfectly_ nice as such, but it was still nice enough. And Harry could easily forgive George from slipping away, after all Ron had been helping more and more in the shop while he was recovering and George had no doubt heard Ron's latest impassioned rant about how the Cannons had been robbed by an unfair penalty awarded against the new beater, Hettie Jib during last Tuesday's match against Puddlemore several times over already that week.

Ron had continued full steam for another 4 minutes or so, defending the young player Hettie’s record of penalties with an amount of passion Harry had to say Ron hardly displayed any other time. Himself and Neville had been nodding and making small noises of agreement while exchanging amused glances as they sipped their beers. But then Ron had suddenly wound up his diatribe with a slightly out of breath proclamation, _'and on that note fellas, I'm going to go take a piss.'_     

Harry thinks that had been a probably about forty-three seconds ago.

It feels longer.

The two of them, Neville and him, standing silently staring straight ahead is not a perfectly nice group, not even a nice enough group, not even really enough.   

Neville takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly and Harry can feel something a bit heavy settle in his stomach, a tug on that ache in his chest which never really goes away.   

 

He just doesn't want to have  _the_  conversation. It's not that he minds at all. In fact, he doesn't, it's all been a bloody relief really. But Merlin, if Harry can avoid confronting himself about emotional issues to the point that he almost just flat out didn't realise that he was bisexual, he can damn well avoid telling Neville that not only does he not even give two tiny pigmy owl sized hoots about him and Ginny; He actually just feels relief as it takes some pressure of him.

He'd almost laugh if it wasn't in some way a bit sad, he's emotionally stunted and emotionally selfish all at once.   

Neville makes an ominous movement. A gentle rubbing of the back of his neck as the same time as making a very portentous noise, a pained slow “Ahh, look actually Harry I’ve been hoping to..”   

But before Neville can get any further, before he can say anything about how he’s wanted  _'a chance to have a chat_ ' or  _'just wanted to clear the air'_  or any such sentiment Harry finds himself speaking over him. His voice a little too loud and he flings his arm out a bit wildly, pointing to the ground slightly to the side of them. "What's that one that looks like a tulip but it's got teeth?" He asks, pointing at a clump of purple flowers planted in Molly's garden beds that run around the perimeter of the low hedge.   

Neville pauses, mouth open and his brow furrows as he looks away from Harry's face and down at the little clump of flowers, “Um, the purples?" A smile is creeping slowly over his face and although his face long since lost the plumpness of his teenage years for a moment he looks much younger, his eyes are bright as he looks down at the plants in front of them.   

"Oh wow! I can’t believe I didn’t spot those, unusual colour these ones for a Snaggle Toothlip.”    

“A what?” Harry asks, not really that interested at all but damn, much preferring to talk about Toothlips than about Neville and Ginny's fledging romance.   

"A Toothlip Harry, it's a beautiful specimen, surprised Molly has one flowering this early in the season, I’ll have to ask her how she did it.” Neville is moving a little closer to the clump of flowers, murmuring more to himself, “Maybe magical cloches at night, to keep them warm, but then they do stop the snails from eating them which is never good.”   

“What? Don’t you normally not want snails to eat your plants?” Harry asks “I remember Aunt Petunia used to have me collect all the ones on her roses and drop them in the neighbour’s front garden at night. He caught me of course and when I said I was doing it because my Aunt had told me too he grabbed my ear and dragged me home. Told my Aunt and Uncle I was a lying delinquent which Uncle Vernon was happy to agree with and I was only allowed old yogurt and cabbage for the next two weeks.”   

Neville looks up from where he his crouched and gives him a look. A mixture of sympathy and a bit of disgust. Harry would think it’s imagining the results of a diet based around old yogurt and cabbage for two weeks but he knows it’s not. It’s the look any of his friends give him when he mentions something from his childhood with the Dursleys.   

“Well Toothlips are quite aggressive flowers Harry.” Neville starts, a softness to his tone like he’s trying to distract Harry’s thoughts from his childhood pain. Harry doesn’t mind too much, so long as Neville stays distracted from talking about Ginny. “They are carnivorous of course.”   

“Oh, of course.” Harry agrees sipping his beer and nodding like he knows all about it.   

“Bugs mainly, they love crickets, but anything that has a nice hard shell, a good crunch, hence the teeth. But they don’t eat snails because they help them.”

“And, how does the little snails help the ferocious carnivorous flower?” Harry asks.

Neville shakes his head as he stands up, “They are hardly ferocious Harry, in fact their main fault is that they are very vain so what happens is the snails eat the older fading bottom leaves away for them, help them to look their best and the Toothlips are so grateful they don’t eat them and to have a flowering clump this successful I really don’t think Molly would want to keep them away.”

Harry makes a noise as if Neville has just told him something very interesting, “Well if I ever do anything with that jungle out the back of Grimmauld place I’ll get some in I think.” And then seizing the chance to go inside says, “Actually, let’s go ask Molly about what she does instead of the anti-snail clothes?”   

“Cloche Harry.” Neville replies, but he’s already walking back towards the burrow.   

 

“I saw Blaise the other day.” Ginny is saying when Harry approaches the group sitting on the patio.   

“Shirtless?” Asks Luna and everyone turns and looks at her.   

“No-o,” Ginny answers, “he had a shirt on, he was coming out of Nettles, the hardware and gardening shop on Diagon.”   

“Hmm, maybe he just put the shirt back on, was sort of doing up the buttons, a portion of chest on display..”   

“How much Dandelion wine have you had Luna?” Harrys asks as he sits down, George passing him over a fresh beer.

“Oh none, thanks Harry.” Luna tosses her long blonde hair behind her shoulder as she beams at him, “But I have had several Gin and Tonics and some of George’s weed earlier.” She says as if discussing the weather.   

The whole group erupts into laughter at the incongruity of it, except for George who looks swiftly over towards Arthur, still tending the barbeque nearby, well within hearing distance    

“Right well, anyway,” Ginny says, trying to stop laughing.

While Hermione shakes her head saying fondly, “At a family barbecue, only you Luna, only you and bloody George.”   

Harry wishes George and Luna had invited him. Except he doesn’t of course. He is a very professional senior Auror and does not partake of such things. While weed is decriminalised and not listed at all under the _Restricted Potion Ingredient and or Ingestible Substances List,_  it’s also not really done for The Boy Who Lived Twice and youngest ever commander of his own Auror squad to be getting high on the weekend.   

 

Harry tunes back into the chatter to hear Ginny still talking about Blaise.

“It just seemed it was a very odd place to see him and I thought quite interesting and I followed him for a little bit.”   

Luna interrupts laughing “Ginny! You sound like Harry, when he had that crush on dear Draco and used to follow him round at school.”   

Harry jerks his beer out of his mouth “Luna! For the last time, I did not have a crush, I thought he was up to something and what happened?” Harry holds his hands out and looks around the circle, mock exasperated, “That’s right he was bloody up to something wasn’t he!”

Hermione mutters something about protesting too much but Harry just shoots her a daggered look and turns back to Luna, “And for Merlin’s sake will you stop referring to him as _dear_ Draco whenever he comes up in conversation.”   

Luna looks at him calmly, “He does come up in conversation very often when your around Harry.”   

“Got a point there.” George laughs and Hermione and Ginny murmur and nod in agreement, Harry can see the mirth in Hermione’s eyes over the top of her glass.   

Harry can only join in the laughter, protesting with no heat, “Oh come on, you brought him up Luna!”    

“Mmm, but it’s you that makes me think of him Harry.” And with that she swivels back around to talk to Ginny about Blaise’s shopping habits some more.   Harry knows Luna was not serious, but at the same time it’s Luna, so sometimes there's something else underneath her comments. it’s always a little hard to tell.    

He’s irregularly the butt of jokes about his supposed crush on Draco Malfoy and he has to admit he brings it on himself. He’s still intrigued by the man, still finds his ears pricking up at any mention of his name, still takes note whenever he is written about in the paper or gossiped about in a tea room. He likes to pretend his friends don’t notice, but of course they do.

Harry leans back a little in his chair and takes a swig of his beer.

 

҉

 

Neville and Ginny left a little earlier and Luna and George are speaking softly to Harry’s left. He’s full of Molly’s food and family warmth and light headed from the beer. Hermione is occasionally adding to Luna and George’s discussion about transformative animation quality of a powder made with crushed Gumpie Beatles and if it could be used on one of the new products George is developing for the Christmas line, some sort of soft toy Niffler that you can activate to actually hunt for coins on the beach.   

Ron comes out of the Burrow, he’s in silhouette. Back lit from the light inside and he’s limping as badly as he was three months ago, Harry can see it so clearly as the tall black outline moves across the grass towards him. Harry turns to look at Hermione and finds she’s already looking at him, and in that way that she’s always had she’s anticipating his words.   

“He’ll not quit, you know that.” Her voice is soft, calm, there is no blame there but Harry feels the guilt always present within him stirring. Ron won’t quit. He’ll never leave Harry again after the forest.   

He rubs a hand over his forehead, lightly brushing the scar there, “Mmm, and they won’t make him.”

And they wouldn’t, Ron or him could come in with a missing head and if they somehow managed to communicate to Robards that they wanted to be in the field they would be allowed. No one seemed able to say no to war heroes Harry Potter or Ron Weasley. 

“I hate it you know ‘Mione.” Harry says. And he’s not sure why he said it then, or if he even realised that he did hate it until he’s actually uttered the words. But no sooner has he spoken he knows unquestionably it’s the truth.    

“You hate he won’t quit or..” She trails off, cocking her head slightly.   

“Well, that he won’t quit, yeah definitely that. But, it’s more as well.” But Harry stops, because Ron’s there now, pulling a patio chair in between Hermione and Luna, sealing off their little circle and he can’t talk about this with Ron yet, let alone Luna or George. But also, because Harry doesn’t really know what he means himself. 

 

҉

 

There are extended hugs and kisses goodbye, and although he makes a feeble noise about Apparating home and Ron makes a crack that Hermione should let him try it, suggesting ‘ _the beers might have dulled Harry’s magic enough that he’d actually be safer drunk than sober’_ (which truth be told Harry doesn’t really appreciate) he ends up taking a pinch of Floo powder from the cracked vase on Molly’s mantelpiece, enunciating ‘Grimmauld Place’ as clearly as he can and Flooing home a little before 11pm.

 

Kreacher appears in the kitchen while Harry is filling up a glass of water, “Master is home then.” The elf says in an unimpressed tone.   

Harry turns around and cocks his head, “Why are you in a snitch Kreacher, I only get called  _Master_  when I’ve done something wrong.”   

“The Master didn’t tell Kreacher he would be out tonight, Kreacher made a cottage pie and a green salad, all to waste.” 

“Shit, I’m sorry Kreacher, it was a last-minute thing, you know, after we played the pick up Quidditch game, and the cottage pie is in the fridge right?”   

“In the cooling cupboard, yes.” Kreacher says with a sniff. He’s used to Harry using Muggle words on occasion now and while he’s willing to tolerate them as an idiosyncrasy of his muggle-raised Master when Harry isn’t in his bad-books, right now he is obviously giving him no leeway. “Master knows we don’t have a fridge. Powerful master would be sick with the electricity.” 

Kreacher manages to make the word powerful sound not at all like a compliment.   

Which it isn’t really Harry thinks. It’s more a hindrance, a thing to ridicule a little like Ron had. Harry feels tired and angry all at once. It’s this that makes him say a little pithily, “Sorry Kreacher, why don't you sit down and I'll make a cup of tea for you?"

At which point Kreacher looks at him aghast, splutters "You! Master! You make me a cup of tea!"

He rants for a while then. About disrespect, about not being able to rise to one’s place in society. About relationships needing two people to make them work. That one Harry is a little taken aback by. Then Kreacher orders Harry to go up to bed and to think about what he’s said and spins on the spot and disappears.   

Harry imagines he’s gone to Hogwarts, Kreacher is free to go where he likes, Harry pays him in the only payment he’ll accept, muggle comic books Marvel Universe, and Harry these days is actually sort of fond of the crotchety old elf.

As he trudges upstairs he thinks he shouldn’t have offered to make him a tea. But, sometimes it feels good to needle at someone who he knows it won’t matter to. Just release a little something. He’s always on his best behaviour. He’s always being watched. By the press, by the public, by concerned friends and family. Tended to.

 

He has a dream that he’s stuck in some soil in a large garden bed that has for some reason been planted in the Atrium at the Ministry. Everyone he knows seem to be snails, gliding round him and nibbling incessantly at his base, Molly Weasley, Ron, Robards, Parvati and bloody Neville, all in snail form. Hermione’s tentacle eyes swivelling to watch him as she glides across the Ministry floor. He’s trying to tell them all that he’s fine, that there are no leaves he needs for them to eat for him, but he can’t speak snail, it’s a different dialect from snake he guesses.

When he wakes up needing to go the bathroom he’s a little disconcerted. The metaphor is so obvious he thinks even Trelawney could have interpreted that dream, but mostly he’s very concerned as he’s almost positive there was a very pale-blonde headed cricket jumping round in the background and Harry can’t help but wonder if that means he wants to eat Draco Malfoy.

It takes a while for him to fall asleep again.

 

҉

 

Spring 2003   - Pure Shores/All Saints

 

Draco can't help but sign the cheque with a flourish, adding a twee but joyful loop to the curve of the _y_ at the end of his name. The building inspectors from the _Department of Roof Heights,_ _Floo_ _Widths and Plumbing_ had finally signed off on the last outstanding approval for his barn conversion and Draco was actually, for the first time in years, properly home.

There was no part of the quite large, cheque that he'd just written for his builder that he begrudged in the slightest.   

Leaning back on the bentwood chair slightly he takes a sip of his tea and enjoys looking around his home. A double height ceiling with exposed beams, huge glass windows line the side of the building looking out onto a small pond. His living area is all in one down here, a well-appointed kitchen runs flat along the shorter wall of the barn. It has a large wood topped island with a sink in the centre. Then parallel to that is his long dining table where he sits now. It is a smooth light toned wood with room to seat ten people. Then there is a modern Floo open on both sides which separates his dining from his sitting room. This space is dominated by two large leather couches that sit opposite each other, they are all low sleek lines and minimalist Scandinavian lines and then there is a single very ornate chair. A Louis XVI fauteuil, upholstered in a mint green silk and embossed with gilded gold. It looks utterly ridiculous in Draco's modern open space but something in him wanted him to keep it. It had been his mother’s favourite, he had taken it from her bedroom in the manor.  

It’s basically all he took from the manor at all.   

Upstairs he has a mezzanine level with two spacious light filled bedrooms with an ensuite each, and a study with magically expanded bookshelves. And the under the mezzanine are his services, laundry and a small climate controlled room for wine storage, no cellars in the barn. Nothing remotely dungeon like at all.   

His two House-elves were consulted in the design of the building and have a space of the laundry that is theirs, of course the ones who work in nursery and greenhouses have large quarters in one of the sheds.   

Draco stands and drops his tea cup in the farmhouse sink, he slips on a pair of Wellington boots which are standing by the French doors and steps down to the small paved space that lays between the barn and the pond’s edge and begins his walk down to the nursery and working sheds.  

The walk takes him past the long rows flowers and herbs that they cultivate for potions, each protected by a semi-circle tube shaped haze of wards which maintain temperatures and protect from different weather as well as keep certain insects away from some plants and attract certain birds to others.   

He stops in the first shed to speak with his staff there, some are Garden-elves, some are witch and wizard Herbologists. After the new school year starts he is going to start accepting Herbology N.E.W.T level Hogwarts students for work experience and he’s recently expanded staff to include two charms experts. There are about 23 or so now. He needs a manager for his people really.

 

A little over two hours later he’s stepping back outside the shed and rinsing his hands with a quick _Aguamenti_. He really hates soil. He really hates being dirty. He hates touching worms. He hates smelling and looking at compost in varying states of decay with the more senior of his Garden-elves, Slater, who had seemed to expect Draco to admire it. He politely had done so although having utterly no idea why, and it is a little tricky to come up with compliments relating to how impressive decomposing vegetable scraps are on the fly. Strangely enough they'd never covered that in the deportment classes Mother had forced him to do with his tutors when he was young.

And Draco especially damn well wishes that he hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes of his life talking about worm wee.

He casts a discrete sun protection charm while waving to Solomon Orange, a burly wizard who is in charge of some of the more dangerous restricted flowering plants, Fanged Geraniums for one. The man is walking past carrying two large bags of mulch as if it’s nothing, wearing a singlet and a healthy tan on his rather large biceps, which due to the size of makes Draco feel pretty sure Solomon doesn’t cast lightening charms on the various bags of things he hefts around the nursery site.

Merlin. Draco thinks, he’s as out of place here as that dratted chair in his sitting room. He adjusts the roll of his shirt sleeve, the flowers tattooed over and around the mark flutter their petals as he brushes across them, and then he sets off again.

He walks for about five minutes before he reaches the oldest greenhouse. A beautiful building of wrought iron and glass which lays shimmering in the spring sunshine. Draco enters through a small door at the back, he never goes via the front.

You can glimpse the West Wing of the Manor from the front entrance.   

 

҉

 

Blaise has his face turned upward to the sun, his jacket dropped on the lounger next to him. He’s unbuttoned his shirt and rolled his sleeves up. His dark skin shining with the slightest shimmer of sweat and for just a moment Draco pauses and admires. It'd be very easy to want Blaise. But the man is the first real friend he's had, well him and Pansy. Greg and Vincent had been accessories more than friends.

But Blaise had always been his own person. Had been when they were children before the war, when they were teenagers during it, and when they'd reconnected at a party of Pansy’s when she’d first moved to Paris nothing had changed.

Blaise accepted Draco straight away, most probably because he had been sizing him up to see what he had to offer, never look a potential gift horse in the mouth was the attitude. And indeed few months later Blaise had arrived in Tuscany, his mother’s new husband having kicked him out unless he took a job at his firm. Blaise had not wanted to. Instead he lived on Draco and Narcissa’s patronage. He had several dramatic love affairs with local villagers, drank a lot of wine, helped Draco with the rebuilding of his mother’s villa and encouraged Draco to think about coming back to England one day.

And in the end Blaise’s natural propensity to always be open to a self-serving opportunity had resulted in a proper friendship so Draco can hardly hold it against the man.

 

“Why not just take the shirt off Zabini?” He says, standing over the other man, blocking the sun. Blaise smiles a lazy smile up at him as he opens his eyes.   

“Draco, half the seduction is in the imagination, better to give a glimpse when wanting to entice.”   

Draco makes a noise similar to a snort and goes through the still open glass doors calling over his shoulder, “I remain unenticed myself, but wander over to the nursery and there’s a new apprentice landscaper who might be interested.”   

Blaise has followed him inside and is sitting at the dining table and pulling various papers out of his briefcase.

“You’ve hired for the empty role then, that’s good, I’ve got some contracts I need you to sign for the distribution into that muggle chain and some orders from Nettles too of course.”

Draco takes two ales out of the cool cupboard and comes to sit opposite him, “Thank you Blaise. I have an authority to withdraw from my vault for the builders which I need you to take back to Gringotts as well.”   

“You got the sign off from the Ministry drones then?”

“I did,” Draco grins at his friend as he sits at the table. “It’s finally officially built and habitable.”   

They clink their bottles together and Draco flicks his wand towards the wireless.

 

҉

 

Draco is not sure the now established trend for the WWN to play more and more Muggle music is a good thing at all. Blaise is crooning along to the dratted thing and dancing round the open Floo as if he thinks he is an Appleton sister. Draco shouldn’t even know what an Appleton sister is. He shakes his head and turns the page of the strange smooth muggle paper.

“Aye! You know you should read that Draco.” Blaise interrupts his attempt at singing to say.  

“I trust you, and I don’t understand this stuff at all. I mean what is this, a whole section on where the bottles will be displayed?” Draco sips his beer, “Doesn’t it just get placed on a shelf?”   

Blaise comes back to the table and picks up his own bottle, “Shelf placement is very important, got to be in the eye level, need to be in the same spot in every shop your gunk goes in, also I need you sign off on the new art. Taken me an age on that stuff it’s been a nightmare to find something that would work in both markets you know, but the savings in production cost will be well worth it.”

“If it’s all too difficult Blaise...” Draco starts but Blaise laughs over the top of him.   

“What you’ll do it yourself? No you won’t Draco, you might be able to handle the Muggle stuff, that’s mostly done by email but Nettles,” he shakes his head, “do you know I have to go to Diagon to take the old man’s order on an weekly basis and collect payment by hand. It barely changes, he could just owl the thing, but no, I have got to go in and spend an hour talking about Geronimo Nettle’s views on the Harpies’ chances for the cup and hear about how the Ministry isn’t doing enough to support Werewolf outreach.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at this.

“Daughter attacked in the war.” Blaise offers.

Draco nods and stands up to get another beer.

 

He deliberately doesn’t think of Greyback, but the hairs on the back of his neck are standing up. He instead thinks about email. Draco isn’t entirely sure he fully understands what email is, and so he doesn’t actually think he could handle the Muggle side of what Blaise does at all, but he doesn’t say that. He also can’t see why Blaise is describing Samuel Nettle’s perfectly normal business practices as if it's an unreasonable tiresome obligation such as dinner with a whiskered Great Aunt or some such. He thinks he could handle the wizarding side of things just fine, except yes, if he did do it himself he’d have to go to into Diagon to do so.  

As he sits down again sliding another bottle over to Blaise he says, “Best that you handle it all really Blaise.” And there’s a catch in his voice which he hates. Draco busies himself by writing his initials where a small strange coloured mark has been attached to the paper with the instruction _Sign Here_. He peels it off and looks at the back, a small sticky residue remains. It is a curious thing.

“I saw Ginny Weasley when I went into Nettles the other week.” Blaise says throwing a small box across the table to Draco.   

“Oh yes. The Weaslette. Potter there too?”   

Blaise laughs again, Draco looks up from opening the small box, “What?” He says huffily.   

“Less than five seconds that took.”   

Draco gives a little humph, “No idea what your insinuating Zabini.” He’s got the little box open. It’s a whole roll of the little ‘sign here’ instructions; he peels one off and sticks it on the back of his hand.   

“Well your unrequited crush was not there, why would he be? They broke up ages ago, which I know you know so don’t try to deny it! Actually I heard the other day Ginny Weasley is with Neville Longbottom now.”    

Draco looks up from sticking another little instruction on his hand to raise an eyebrow, “How would you know this, there’s been no headlines in the Prophet screaming Holyhead Harpie ex of Boy Who Lived catches Herbology Professor in Romantic Snitch or some such trollop.”    

Blaise laughs, “Don’t become a sub-editor Draco and good to see you’re not bothering to pretend you don’t completely fancy aforementioned Boy Who Lived anymore, that’s progress at least.”   

“Blaise,” Draco says darkly, all the promise of a marvellous stinging hex behind his tone of voice. “Anyway, tell me how you know about Ginny Weasley's love life?” 

Blaise cocks an eyebrow and says with a wry twist to his lips, “Well, her brother told me the morning after Pans and I went to one of his gigs in Ibiza.” He sips his beer, eyes merry as Draco sits gobsmacked for a moment and then has to remember to close his mouth.   

“Went to a foam party, lots of fun, you should come, lots of wet half naked men.”   

Draco swallows, mouth dry all of a sudden, “One of what? One of George Weasley’s gigs? Do you mean a performance?”   

Blaise nods, unabashedly grinning now. “He’s a DJ, pretty good, mostly house, electro-house, but on the third night he played an amazing trance set on this rooftop as the sun came up.”   

Draco has no idea what Blaise is talking about. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

He throws the box of sticky instructions at Blaise’s head. It bounces off his cheek and onto the table. Blaise looks altogether far too mischievous; Draco takes a gulp of his beer. There’s something niggling at him. Blaise is watching him closely.

With a horrid sick feeling in his stomach he puts the bottle down heavily on the table and levels Blaise with a cold stare.   

“Pansy.”   

“Mmmm?” Blaise raises his dratted eyebrows.   

Draco says in a very strained tone, “Pansy said in her last owl that she’s dating a DJ, explained what one was. Didn't say anything about house trances though." Draco watches as Blaise starts to nod and smile properly, his handsome face overjoyed.

"Oh for Merlin’s sake, Blaise! She’s not dating George Weasley..”   

Blaise starts laughing even louder than before.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm [Silvered Glass](https://silveredglass.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you'd like to chat.


	3. Badly Drawn Boy & Muse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter Harry has treatment for depression. He's going to throughout the story, they both will really, just in this chapter it's detailed a bit.  
> I don't think it's any more intense than when these issues are when touched on in other post-war Harry Potter fics, but if you've got any worries please ask me. If you want to skip it all together there is a mark **** ҉ **** **** ҉ **** under where the more detailed mentions stop.

Late Spring 2003 - Tickets to What You Need/Badly Drawn Boy

 

Harry is in Robard's office.

His ribs are aching where Parvati healed them quickly after he was hit with debris from the wall he’d accidentally brought down when he was trying to cast a simple _Alohomora_.

He had thrown up a _Protego_ straight away but.. Well, as accidental explosions go, it had been quite a large one. It had also been the fourth this month.

Fifth if you counted the teapot he’d accidently exploded when listening to the Harpies v Kestrals match on the WWN Saturday afternoon. But Harry is trying very hard not to. He’d wagered George that Ginny wouldn’t get a goal in the first fourteen minutes and she’d gone and done it in thirteen. He’d been a little annoyed, and had been washing out the teapot at the time, and suddenly the sink had been full of shattered china and Kreacher had appeared to chastise him for breaking the crockery.

He’d told Kreacher it had slipped but Harry is pretty much a hundred and ten percent sure that it was his brief surge of annoyance that did it. He just was really trying to ignore it that’s all. Ignore the indication that his magic wasn't just going haywire in moments of great stress and pressure. But was just going haywire in general all the time.

 

Robards looks up from the incident report, “You performed a wandless and wordless _Protego Maxima_?” He sounds a little in awe, and a little incredulous.

Harry gives a small uncomfortable noise of confirmation, "Well I dropped my wand for a moment, when I fell.." 

“It took three of you to perform the _Finite Incantatem_ to end it?”

Harry slides a little further down in his seat and gives a sheepish, “Mmmhm.” By way of answer.

“In the ensuring ruckus, the Wizards of Interest evaded apprehension but you,” and Robard’s pauses in his reading here and looks up at Harry with his eyebrows raised, “and _please_ correct me if this is wrong Harry, but it says you took your squad Second-in-Charge’s wand and performed a double-wanded  _Incarcerous?_ Over a distance of approximately eighty metres?” Robard’s voice has got quite high by the time he finishes reading.

“I did ask first.” Harry replies a little sulkily.

Robards looks over to the window and sighs in a sort of long-suffering way and mutters, “Two wands, eighty metres, I would never have even imagined possible.” Harry watches the Department Head shake his head before returning to read the parchment in front of him.

It is silent for a little while apart from Robards turning the parchment over.

"Harry." He says eventually, sighs heavily and looks up, "I'm putting you on paid leave."

Harry's stomach lurches, but there is not even a hint of defensive anger, just a sort of defeated acceptance mingled with the first threads of dread.

"I can't have you in the field and look," another deep sigh, "I mean, and I _never_ thought I’d say this, but I don't _want_ to have you out there to be frank."

Harry remembers thinking how he’d never be excused from duties. Even if he was headless. And he is in a way. Unable to control himself. Directionless and a danger to his colleagues and the public. He has known he’s been on borrowed time since Inverness. After Ron. He’d known then it hadn’t been the smugglers. He’d known then it was his fault. Yup. If he was braver he would have stayed home after that.

Harry swallows, "It's ok Gawain, I understand."

And all of a sudden Harry is exhausted. For once he actually does just want to go home.

Go home and sleep. So, he does.

 

 

Three days later and Ron is standing in his bedroom door with Kreacher beside him. "Harry wake up you fucker."

"I'm awake." Harry says flatly. He's in bed with music on. He likes this song. He'd got Arthur to help him charm a cd player so it worked. It doesn't all the time though, and the song that's playing has been doing so on repeat for a little over an hour. There's a line in it about hugging your eiderdown. Harry identifies with it.

"I'm taking you to see the healer."

"Nup."

"Condition of the leave Harry." Ron crosses into the room and drops a heavy envelope in Ministry green on the bed. "You left the paperwork in Robard's office, he sent me to give it to you, and to take into the place." Ron gives a nod back towards the door.

"I'm not going to Mungo's."

"No, it's some address in Mayfair."

Harry pushes himself up so he's leaning on his hands so he can look at Ron's face. Harry can tell he's upset. His lips look thin, a little pinched. Kreacher is opening the blinds and picking up discarded plates and tea cups.

Ron looks back at him, pale blue eyes looking at him steadily. "Hermione cried Harry." He says finally.

And, well. Fuck.

Harry swings his legs over the side of the bed, with a deep breath stands up and then stumbles past Ron, bumping into him just a little as he goes past to show he’s annoyed and heads into the bathroom down the hall.

He doesn't bother to close the door, just leans over the bath tub and turns the spanner attached to where the hot water tap should be. The pipes groan and protest and he goes to take a piss while he waits for the water to warm up. He stares blankly at the wall in front of him. The tiles are missing in a patch here. They are lovely tiles, a sort of a very plate azure blue glass that Harry thinks might be charmed to move slightly mimicking water. He pulls the chain to flush the toilet and just lets his pants fall down to the floor, kicking them off as he moves to the shower.

He bangs his knee on the damn spanner as he climbs into the tub.

Fuck.

Everything is shabby and broken and a lot to deal with and too much and now his knee hurts.

Harry reaches for the soap.

 

҉

 

Early Summer 2003

 

"So basically, if I went to work I didn't have to think, but then not being able to think was making me, um.." Harry looks at the unmoving muggle landscape painting that hangs on the far wall of the healer's office. This is Harry’s fourth weekly session with the healer. During his first appointment, the healer had explained that none of the paintings were not wizarding, so as to protect patient’s privacy. Harry actually finds the stillness a little unnerving.

Silence spreads.

The last two appointments Harry has spent talking fairly monosyllabically about his life at the Dursleys. Today they seem to be starting on very recent events. He sort of keeps waiting for the healer to bring up The War. But he’s starting to realise that the healer doesn’t bring anything up. He just waits for Harry to direct the session. Harry wonders if he could direct the topics around to Quidditch somehow.

He looks back at the healer who is waiting patiently, Harry sighs, "It made me feel a bit like I couldn’t move.”

“What other ways would a person describe being unable to move Harry?” Asks the healer.

"Trapped?" Harry answers with an inflection, as if he's asking a question.

The healer makes a note.

Harry finds himself needing to explain. “But I think I liked it.”

The healer stops and raises their eyes to look at Harry.

“I mean I don’t like it. I feel watched all the time and it’s fucking irritating and I mean I feel watched by everyone. Not just the public or whatever but my friends, my family and I’m not even doing anything interesting, I’m doing exactly what they expected of me I'm working, I'm being an Auror, the only thing I haven’t done is married Ginny or started a family or lived in a fancy house and invited Witch Weekly over to have a look at my updated kitchen.” Harry takes a breath. The healer is still looking at him.

“Anyway, I mean I’ve done the main thing they expected me to do. And I haven’t fallen apart I just, I just..” Harry rubs his forehead. “Well I _hadn’t_ fallen apart.”

“Harry did anyone tell you that they expected you to do those things?”

Harry shakes his head. “Not in words maybe be. But the press.”

“Your friends? Family? Your ex-partner?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, I think Ginny would have like to go travelling maybe.”

He’s remembering, her face flat when he told her he was starting Auror training. She was home for the weekend, half way through her seventh year and he’d suggested that she come to live in Grimmauld Place when she finished. They’d had some strange conversation about Morocco. Harry hadn’t really understood. He remembers he’d been reading a parchment Robards had sent about the fitness requirements for admission to the program and thinking about how he’d have to start training, have to start eating properly, while Ginny was saying something about being spontaneous.

He’d suddenly suggested they went out that afternoon to the Puddlemore match and Ginny had been surprised, happy. Had hugged Harry and said _‘yes, that type of thing, let’s just go out more, it’ll be fine, it’ll be fine.’_ Harry remembers specifically not admitting that he wanted to catch up with Oliver after the match to ask about training regimes and for a recommendation to a wizarding gym.

“Harry.” The healer interrupts his meandering thoughts, “What did you expect to do?”

“Um. I suppose to do that stuff I just mentioned.” Harry runs a finger along a crease in his jeans above his knee. Sees Ron’s face, pale and nauseated waiting to be evac-ed to Mungo’s after his injury. Harry feels self-hatred and anger rising within him, and he spits out, “Maybe be better it. Not be alone, not be getting suspended from work. If I do get suspended from work maybe care a bit more about the fact I got suspended in the first place. Not be living in a falling down wreak of a house. Not be avoiding people. Not be starting to be afraid to cast a bloody _Lumos_ in case I light up half of Islington.” Harry gives a little laugh.

“You don’t care that you were suspended from work Harry?”

“I care in that I have nothing to do. But I don’t actually care. I dunno, I can’t explain. I am not really sure I care about..” Harry trails off again, he had been going to say he doesn’t think he cares about anything, but he does. He just also doesn’t.

“Would you say you are dissatisfied with your life?”

“No.” Harry replies automatically realising as he speaks what a lie it is.

“Maybe I am.”

The healer is silent. Makes a note on their parchment.

There is some type of fission in Harry’s stomach, in his chest, something sparks, “Maybe I’m disappointed in myself.” It feels brave to say. Harry feels like he’s said something that matters. Just saying this out loud.

But then the healer asks “Why?”

And Harry doesn’t really know.

 

The healer says that Harry is depressed, that they think Harry has been depressed for quite some time. The healer says a lot of things about stress after traumatic events and even some stuff about concepts of love and affection being skewed after having an abusive childhood. That Harry has always had obligations to please others and consequences for not doing so, be they getting locked in a cupboard or Voldemort taking over the world. The healer says routine is important. The healer says as much as Harry can he should see his friends and family. The healer says Harry should exercise.

 

҉

 

A few days later, Harry finally meets Hermione for lunch. She’s only owled him asking every Tuesday for five weeks now.

It’s quite nice. Harry orders a corned beef and mustard sandwich and Hermione has three chocolate frogs in her handbag and lets Harry have two while she finishes her wine that she _‘shouldn’t have but oh go on then what's the worst that happens I fall asleep highlighting transactions for 44 Galleons made after June 1995?’_ She mutters this to herself mainly so Harry doesn’t reply. He also doesn’t comment that whatever case they are working on in the Ministry’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement Sub-Section Department of Public Prosecutions and Justice sounds dead boring. Hermione has a slightly hard look in her eye and not for the first-time Harry wants to ask why she’s even working there. But instead Harry displays his high level of social grace as well as ability to keep anyone entertained by changing the subject and talking about the weather.

When they stand up to say goodbye they hug each other and Hermione kisses his cheek and Harry just starts crying.

Hermione grabs both his elbows firmly and Disapparates them right out of the pub into a park.

They sit cross legged on the grass and Harry cries a bit longer. Proper tears. He’s snotty and embarrassed but he can’t stop and Hermione sits close to him, their knees touching and she leans forward so she has a hand on his shoulder and one clutching his knee while he sobs with his head in his hands.

She has several handkerchiefs in her bag and another chocolate frog and when he’s cleaned himself up, eaten the frog and he’s just occasionally sobbing a little, feeling the pull of his lips turning down but not giving way to the all-encompassing sobs any longer Harry finally says, “You’re the only one who touches me ‘Moine.”

She makes a noise, A curious noise, not a comprehending noise.

“I don't mind being touched. But no one does. Apart from you. I mean Molly hugs me hello, kisses me, but no one else does. No pats on the back, people don’t even really shake my hand except at ceremonies or funerals.”

“ _Do_ you not mind Harry?” She asks.

“No.”

“Oh.” She sounds surprised. “I always thought you did a little. You’ve always been a bit reserved you know, not demonstrative and I just thought that was you. When Ginny used to get upset about you not being affectionate I would always say you just weren't really a physically affectionate person but I guess that was something else.” And here Hermione laughs a little, she's pink and embarrassed and rambling and she’s looking over Harry’s shoulder with a look on her face that Harry has most often seen in the Hogwarts' Library. That look which means she’s just worked something out.

“Harry, I know it’s shit, and you probably are already, but you should talk about the Dursley's with your healer.

Harry nods "I am." He mutters looking down. Now that he's stopped crying and has explained himself, his aversion to discussing anything to do with emotions has returned with a vengeance. He's still sitting cross legged in font of Hermione but Merlin, he just wants to escape. He feels an idiot. Falling apart and lumping this all on Hermione. He's always relying on her to fix everything. And fuck she's got enough going on. He should be helping her more. Harry is shit. He's a shit friend.

Hermione is speaking, lowering her head to try to get him to look in her eyes and pay attention, her eyes warm and they look full of tears themselves. She takes his face in her hands and leans their foreheads together and whispers, “You’re loved and wanted and brave Harry.”

Harry doesn’t know how much he believes her. If at all. He feels like a mess. A burden. Who wants to go out for lunch with a loser with no job who cries about not getting enough cuddles but can’t find the ability to communicate.

 

He goes home, walks there, it takes about an hour. When he arrives, he pauses for a moment on the pavement outside his house. The area is getting a bit nicer, the exteriors of his neighbours’ houses are freshly painted. The front door of number 14 is a very bright yellow with some sort of red flowers in window boxes outside the first-floor windows. It looks cheery. Harry is pretty sure there is a family living there, he’s certain there is a boy around Teddy’s age.

He looks back to 12 Grimmauld Place, the paint is peeling away, there is litter piled up against the brick entrance stairs and instead of pretty window boxes his first-floor windows have a large crack running through one of them.

The snake on the door lifts it’s head lazily, one eye peers at him, the serpent gives a sort of snort and curls up again, then after a moment the door swings open. Harry hisses a sarcastic _“Sorry to bother you.”_

 

He climbs the stairs past the room he sleeps in, until on the second floor he turns and walks down the hall to the master bedroom. It's dusty and smells. Harry crosses the room and opens the heavy drapes to look out the large windows that face onto the centre square.

It’s been done up as well. Wrought Iron fence restored and grass re-laid and there’s even a small colourful swing set and slide installed under the large Hawthorne tree. There are children playing.

Harry turns around and looks at the heavy dark wood bed covered in faded and stained linens. He lets himself slide down the wall and sits. Runs his fingers along the deep gashes left in the floorboards from Buckbeak’s talons. He remembers hiding in this room while Arthur was in Mungo’s. Remembers Hermione not going skiing, Ginny’s exasperation and almost hurt at Harry not talking to her about what it was like to have Riddle inside your head.

 

He _knows_ is the thing. He knows he’s always the last to ask for it, but also, he feels like he’s the one who always needs help. And he doesn’t want to need help any more. He wants to just deal with stuff himself. This should be the easy bit. It’s one thing needing help when you’re trying to defeat the evillest fucker ever to pick up a wand but fuck. This is just life. Just work and bills and what do you want to do on Saturday night and maybe you should go on a date that blonde guy Lee introduced you to from Magical Games who has a cute arse. Why can’t you just get on and do stuff!

Harry bangs his head on the plaster wall behind him and feels tears at the edge of his eyes. He’s so tired

 

.҉

 

His healer says he has touch aversion. Harry says he can be intimate with people, he just avoids it sometimes. His healer says that it’s a normal response to certain traumas and that they can work through it but that there is nothing wrong with just not enjoying or needing to touch people. The healer says that he needs a routine. That he should try to get back to regular exercise. That he shouldn’t take Dreamless Sleep. That Muggles have anti-depressant drugs that can help, magic is _magic_ and a potion can fix almost any symptoms but it’s not chemistry and sometimes that’s what depression is. Just literal bits of chemistry not working inside your brain. But muggle medicines can interfere with magic, and Harry’s is a bit wacky as it is.

So, they will continue the therapy. Because a lot of depression is situational at times. Plus the healer says Harry has some patterns of thought that are not necessarily true, says something about negative self-labelling, and this can improve with therapy.

The healer says all this. Except the bit about Harry’s magic. Harry is the one that calls his magic wacky.

The healer says Harry has what is commonly called High Functioning Depression. This does ring a little true for Harry. He can relate to functioning. Not really living. But existing. Functioning.

The healer sighs and puts his note book down and says firmly, “Harry, you must get into a routine.”

He’s not working still. He can’t go back without the healer signing off and even then, he’d have to have his magic tested, prove he was under control. When he was working that was his routine. His cloak. He didn’t need to think. He just worked.

 

҉

 

Mid-Summer 2003

 

The days are light for so long at the moment, London is humid and it’s impossible to sleep. This is why Harry is drinking the tea. He’d thought it was some herbal concoction, something with magical properties but obviously not Dreamless Sleep. Harry is not taking Dreamless Sleep anymore. He looks down into the contents of the mug and wishes he was talking Dreamless Sleep.

Luna had sent it with a note.

_To drink before sleep dear Harry._

_So glad you are finally getting those wrakspurts dealt with. Wonderful news about Dean and Seamus we should dance together several times. I think it'll be wonderful, Ireland is a regenerative soil. So long as the purple isn’t too mauve of course._

_Love Luna._

Harry has no idea what that all means, except yes. It is wonderful news that Dean and Seamus have set a date and the herbs have ended up being chamomile tea. Harry slurps the rest of it down and pushing his chair back asks Kreacher to wake him up the next morning. The elf looks up at him from where he is sitting on top of the kitchen table cross legged, reading Amazing Spiderman and says, “If Master Harry thinks Kreacher is going to invite having shoe thrown at him Master Harry is crazy.

“I'm not crazy.” Harry calls over his shoulder, climbing the creaking stairs, “Just depressed and stress disordered.”

 

When Harry stumbles into the kitchen a little before a quarter to nine the next day Kreacher drops the mug he was holding on the tiles.

Harry eats the toast the elf makes and he’s sipping some coffee, absent mindedly reading the gossip pages. It’s about him of course.  

_Harry Potter has not been spotted since we snapped our exclusive picture of him embracing his fellow Golden Trio member and wife of his supposed best-friend and Auror Partner Ronald Weasley, Hermione Granger-Weasley in Leicester Square Garden three weeks ago. Granger-Weasley has made no statement on the matter although her husband was more forthcoming and readers will remember he almost fell over laughing when your correspondent cornered him to ask if he was being cuckolded by the Boy Who Lived Twice. A diversionary tactic if this writer has ever seen one._

Harry looks at the picture again and finds himself smiling just a little. Harry is looking downwards and Hermione has her hands on his shoulders. The picture is fuzzy, but Harry rubs aggressively at his face and he’s more surprised that it was never picked up that he was crying then anything else. Picture Hermione gives him a little shake. It definitely looks more like she’s trying to talk sense into him, not about to have a snog in the middle of the day in one of the busiest parks in London.

Harry turns to the back of the paper for the Quidditch scores. Before he remembers it’s the off season.  He’s all out of whack.

The kitchen isn’t very light. It’s at the back of house and has a window over the sink and a single door that has a glass panel in the top that looks out the back garden. The room is large, a big farmer’s table, an old Aga and a newer gas range. There are what seems like an unnecessary number of cupboards and as well as a large pantry, then a laundry and the boiler cupboard. Kreacher still has a small nest in there as well as a space in the attic. Harry watches him as he levitates some crockery back to a cupboard. He’d offered the elf a bedroom and Kreacher had gone to Hogwarts for two days.

There is a sudden tapping on the glass of the door and Harry looks over to see the slow-moving wings of a large owl hovering outside, Kreacher lets it in and Harry holds out his toast crust in anticipation, it looks like a Short eared Owl, one from the North, maybe from Hogswarts.

Harry unties the ribbon attached to the small brown parcel, Neville's handwriting.

_Dear Harry_

_Hermione and Ron had Ginny and me over for dinner and they said you were having some time off. Good I say. You never took a moment after the war. Don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t gone on that trek in South America. It was good to be outside. It still is. So, I’m sending some bulbs, these are all summer planting ones so there’s not so many but one is the kind you liked so much at Molly’s, the Toothlip._

_Let’s have a beer one day, I’m always up for a chat if you need._

_Love you mate_

_N_

Harry feels a little sick. He doesn’t really deserve to be loved by Neville. Even reading his letter fills him with a type of guilt. He’s deliberately pushed him away since he realised Ginny and him were getting a little serious. And for utterly no reason to do with jealously at all, just motivated by wanting to avoid what would have been a short but uncomfortable ‘so is it ok that I am dating your ex’ conversation that he could tell Neville wanted to have. And then each time he avoided it, ‘the conversation’ became a more exaggeratedly ominous thing in his mind. And eventually it reached the point that he stopped owling Neville. Shied off going up to Hogsmead for their semi-regular nights out with Dean and Seamus, citing work commitments even when Ron made it along without him.

He’d pushed him away for utterly no reason and still Neville is concerned, is reaching out. For fucks sake, is sending him bloody bulbs that he doesn’t bloody want, and basically Harry is selfish and undeserving and for all Harry knows Neville is pissed off at him and is only doing this because Ginny or Hermione suggested it. They probably resent him too though. Just feel obliged to sort of Mother him and Harry realised he’s scratching the top of his left hand.. He puts both palms flat on the table and takes a few deep breaths.

Fuck. He’s meant to take a breath when he starts thinking about this and try to work out what is true. He has a worksheet from the healer, it’s in amongst the mess and flotsam on the table. Harry rummages and finds it. There is a stub of a pencil which he uses for the find-a-word and he scribbles answers. He sips at his cold coffee as he writes, as he separates facts from what _he thinks_ are facts. Things and actions that have friends have actually done compared to what interpretation he has placed on them. There is space to write a mantra at the end. Harry stares at the Short Eared Owl who has taken up a roost on the back of the chair opposite. He watches the slow rise and fall of the bird’s body, and finally writes in small and tight letters, _I am not a burden._

Kreacher has silently left a bit of parchment and a quill next to him and is standing up on a footstool scraping onions off a board into a pot on the gas cook top. He seems to feel Harry looking at him as he turns around and says, “Harry would be well served to remember his manners he would.”

Harry scratches out a reply.

_Thanks Neville. Appreciate the thoughts and the bulbs. Will be in touch about the beer soon._

_Cheers_

_HJP_

Kreacher pokes at the owl and gives it a scrap of bacon. The creature hops over to Harry who ties the parchment to the owl’s proffered ankle and goes upstairs back to bed for the morning.

 

But the next day the little parcel is still on the kitchen table and when Harry has finished his toast he goes over and slides the bolt open on the kitchen door.

It’s bright outside. The grass is yellow in patches and overgrown, there’s a huge deeply green coloured bush in a centre bed that has bright red flowers, an almost too large oak tree amongst others, garden beds overrun with weeds and at the back somewhere is a very large old stable. Harry stands with his hands on his hips, blinking a little in the light and then without thinking he turns around.

 

****   ҉   **** ****   ҉   ****

 

Harry goes upstairs, skipping the broken one, and down the hall past the entrance to the dining room and stares angrily at the hall table. His shoes should be under the hall table.

He traipses up the staircase, goes past the drawing room and into the room he sleeps in. He lets his pyjama bottoms fall to the ground and shuffles around finding some very old shorts and a t-shirt as well as his scruffiest trainers. He’s sitting down putting these on and it occurs to him that he isn’t really sure why he sleeps in this room. Ginny had always gone to it. It had been the room she’d shared with Hermione all those years ago, at some stage Harry and her had pushed the two single beds together and then even when Ginny stopped coming to Grimmauld Place, Harry had kept just going back into this room to sleep.

He takes his wand and stows it in the pocket of his shorts and goes back down to the kitchen again.

The shed probably used to a stable a long time ago, it’s large and dark and Sirius’ motorbike is parked right by the door. Harry used to roll it out onto the small brick paved area by the high brick fence which separates the garden from the laneway at the back of the property.

Harry hasn’t really worked on the bike for quite some time.

He casts _Lumos_ and then _LumousMaxima_ and peers past the bike into what must be magically expanded space. There is dust floating in the shafts of light coming in from the clearstory windows. The shed is as full of antiques, random (no doubt dark) objects and general flotsam as the attic and the rest of the house. Harry runs his hand over the smooth but dust covered seat of Sirius’ bike and goes back outside and Disapparates to Diagon Alley.

 

He lands outside the place that has the strongest pull for him on Diagon, Quality Quidditch Supplies. He lands there in the middle of a Saturday morning during high summer when Hogwarts is on Holidays.

He’s lucky he didn’t land on anyone. As it is, flashes are going off and three witches aged maybe about fifteen or so shriek and run at him, one of them pulling out a small phone that she flips open and takes a picture with.

“How does that work?” Doesn’t it upset your magic?” Harry asks, somewhat distracted.

“Can’t do magic on holidays anyway.” The witch answers breathlessly.

Which yes, ok.

Harry starts walking away, backwards. He makes a strange bowing motion as if to apologise and also to beg to be allowed to escape and then quickly he turns around crossing the cobblestones and almost breaking into a jog going past Fortescue’s Ice-cream Parlour. He stops short outside Nettles Hardware and Garden Goods, almost knocks over a display of brooms. They all have very flat heavy bristle heads, but still there is a hand-written bit of parchment attached to the display saying _‘Non-Flight Worthy’_ in a spidery hand.

 

Inside the shop it is dark and cool, there’s an older wizard in a leather apron sitting at the counter reading the Prophet and the sounds of Elvis in the background.

Harry realises that he doesn’t even know if wizards use spades. Maybe they have gardening spells. Harry tries to think back to Herbology. “Do you know what a spade is?” He blurts out.

“Do you know what shop you’re in son?” The man replies, brow furrowed quizzically. Harry glances round, his eyes straight away falling on what looks like a large amount of spade handles sticking up over the top of the next aisle, he looks back to the man, with a sheepish, apologetic grin.

The older wizard starts slowly folding up his copy of the Prophet, whistling as he does to the tune of Burning Love, “He was a wizard you know.” He says nodding his head in the direction of the small turntable behind him. But before Harry can question this the man laughs shakes his head, “Naw a muggle, but still magic.”

Harry nods, still awkward, “So um, I need a spade.”

The man hefts himself off his stool with a grunted, “Come on then lad,” and starts down an aisle asking Harr what he’s planning on doing with the spade and Harry replies that he just wants to plant some bulbs.

“Unprepared soil is it?”

“Well at the moment there are some weeds so I thought I’d pull them out and put the bulbs in.” Harry says, dramatically underselling the amount of weeds actually in the garden at Grimmauld Place as well walking a little quicker to keep up with the man.

“You going to be doing much gardening son?” The man asks

“Umm.” Harry doesn’t really know how to respond. He may get back home and do none at all.

“Maybe best to add in the self-soiling charm to the barrow there.” The man says seemingly taking it as a given that Harry is buying a wheelbarrow.

Harry looks at him in alarm.

“I’ll give you a couple of charms to say, you cast them on the barrow and it’ll deliver what you need, fresh compost, new soil, sand, mulch. It’s from Quennel Wurm, so top quality it is, you pay a subscription each month depending on what you use.”

“Ah, ok” Harry doesn’t know what a Quennel Wurm is but he is glad to learn self-soiling doesn’t have anything to do with Luna’s stories involving people soiling themselves from her Medi-witch training.

Harry ends up being sort of ordered to purchase a spade, a trowel, a bottle of something, a hoe, a pair of thick dragon hide gloves and the wheelbarrow. The wizard shrinks everything down and hands it to Harry in a nice tote bag.

With a thank you said to the wizard’s back, he’s already fiddling with his record player again, Harry pauses in the shop doorway and casts a disillusionment charm over himself before stepping outside back into the bright sunshine.

 

He walks slowly along Diagon Alley, enjoying watching people rush along, the sweet smell coming out of the patisserie and the excited shouts of a group of younger children as they race along towards Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. He won’t stop in and see Verity, there is a chance Ron might be there and Harry just isn’t quite up for that right now. But on impulse he does stop in at Fortescue’s. Of course, the problem with disillusioning yourself is that it’s hard to get served, and after a short frustrating wait until this dawns upon him he goes back outside, turns, braces himself and Disapparates home.

 

҉

 

August 31st 2003 : about 10 past 6pm

 

Harry turns on the spot and takes two steps away from the door, then turns again and takes one step towards the door, then turns again and takes two more steps away and walks right into Ron.

“Hi Mate.” Ron says.

“Hi.” Harry says to Ron’s chest.

“You not sure if you want to come in?”

Harry smiles and looks up to Ron’s face, “How’d you tell?”

“Well I’m not meant to put pressure on you to do anything but fuck it please come in and get pissed with me.”

Ron doesn’t say _‘I miss you’_ but Harry knows it’s there unsaid. And he feels guilty. Feels guilty for pushing Ron, pushing everyone away, but not being able to really explain to them why he did. He feels guilty for feeling guilty.

 

He takes a breath. He thinks. He separates what he’s thinking from what he knows are facts. He allows himself to acknowledge he’s scared, he allows himself to acknowledge he feels guilty, he tells himself that no-one blames him for anything, he’s done nothing wrong, that the guilt is only from himself. He tells himself his friends want him there, that he is not a burden. He breathes.

It all only takes a moment, Ron has cocked his head, is looking at him calmly, “Want to do it another day mate?”

Harry feels a rush of something in his belly, that old familiar fission of stupid bravery, not wanting to back away from a challenge, and with a voice a lot calmer then he feels says “No. I’m good. Not really meant to get pissed though.”

“That’s ok, neither am I, still on some pain potions for the knee.” Ron puts his arm round Harry’s shoulder and they walk the five steps back to the door of the pub together and then do a strange uncomfortable disentangling to get inside the door. It’s good really, as it distracts Harry while he makes his entrance. It means he's laughing a little as he spins around and sees Neville already sitting at a table towards the back of the pub. He’s got a jug of ale in front of him and Hermione is sitting with her back to Ron and Harry but gesturing animatedly with her hands, Neville nodding long.

“I’ll get some drinks in, you go sit.” Ron instructs and so Harry does. Neville greets him with a handshake across the table and an elbow grab, Hermione lightly kisses his cheek but continues with her story as if Harry being back at their regular afternoon sessions is not-a-big-deal and Harry is glad. She’s smart and intuitive and Harry feels a fierce burning grateful love within him for all the little and big ways that she always has his back.

 

Ron’s back with pints for all and Parvati following behind him carrying her own jug and glasses. It’s not long before Ginny arrives with a broad smile hello for Harry and a kiss for Neville. She slides into the open seat next to her boyfriend and at one point catches Harry eye and Harry freezes, feels those tentacles reach out and touch him, _don’t ask me how I am, don’t ask me how I_ am he thinks but she just says, “I like that shirt Harry, you look good.”

Harry puts his arms out in front of him, he can remember thinking a few weeks ago his skin had been a little ashy maybe, but now his arms looked smooth, skin a nice brown.

“You’ve been outside I think?” Ginny asks, “You _do_ tan, no matter what you say.” She’s smiling, picking up a long-abandoned thread of a joke they used to share. How long it would take Ginny to leave the house, how many sun protection charms she’d stop play to cast and recast when they were out playing pick-up Quidditch, how he’d always shrug them off, say he didn’t need it, _‘I can’t burn Ginny - it'swaste of magic’_ He’d protest, always wanting to get on with the game, to get out of the house, hating any delays.

Harry smiles at her, “Been gardening a bit and working on the house too.”

Neville turns instantly, “Gardening?” And Ginny rolls her eyes in a good-natured way and turns to Parvati.

 

Harry talks to Neville about the garden, explains where he planted the bulbs and that he’s had a horrid time trying to cut back the huge Spitting Hibiscus bush and that he’s hired a few garden elves from the Elf Placement Agency on Carkitt Market and they are utterly invaluable as he knows nothing. Neville wants to come over and help too and Harry says he’s welcome, even though he’s not sure if he wants that just yet. Not sure if he’s ready to have people to visit. But he wants to stop saying 'no' to Neville. To all of them.

Luna has arrived and she’s kissing Parvati hello on the lips, and so that’s new, but then she’s saying congratulations as well and it turns out Parvati has finally been promoted to look after her own squad and Harry is ecstatic. He’s been telling Robards that Parvati was ready for almost a year now, secretly thinking his boss was only holding back out of sexism.

Harry announces he’s buying a round for everyone to celebrate and when he stands up and turns around to head to the bar Pansy Parkinson is walking in the door.

She’s wearing a coat hung off her shoulders and her lips look very red and Harry doesn’t know much about these things but she seems elegant and untouchable and put together in a way that he could never imagine being, but there is an instance of shock when their eyes meet. She glances at the table and the people surrounding him and he sees her hesitate, sees her swallow and her eyes narrow just a slight amount.

Luna is standing up and calling out to her, “Pansy! Over here!” And then Hermione is looking over, her mouth opening in shock a little and then a wicked grin steals across her face and she leans in to whisper something to Ron who’s gone bright red and is shaking his head.

“Shots maybe then.” Harry says to no one and heads over to Hannah.

 

When he gets back Pansy Parkinson is sitting in his chair next to Hermione and across from Luna so he sits down next to her. She turns and looks at him and then down at the tray of shots he’s placed on the table picking up a small glass with manicured fingers.

“Hello Pansy.” Harry says.

“You got my owl I presume?” She says calmly, the glass poised in front of her, halfway to her mouth.

“You heard my testimony I presume?” Harry allows his lips to curve upwards in a slight smile. Pansy is a piece of work and he sort of likes it.

“Well I sent the owl in response,” Her brow arches, “So, yes.”

“Well, I think I replied.” Harry says, quite amused, she’s so straight to the point, but also speaking in a strange indirect way.

“You did. But.” She looks away for a moment and then back at him, directly and unafraid, “But in person, I must thank you again Harry.”

Harry makes a small noise of acknowledgment and a little lost for words, picks up his own shot glass and they tilt them towards each other and then drink. The vodka is smooth and freezing and Harry likes the burning clean of it.

Hermione leans over and says in what Harry can hear is her attempt at being polite, her attempt at making peace, “Pansy congratulations on the position at _Modum_.”

“Thank you, Hermione.” Pansy says her eyes flick down to Hermione's outfit, she’s dressed from her day in the office, “That’s Muggle Chanel, last season, very nice, do you work in law? Investments maybe, it’s individual but appropriate. I like it.”

Hermione smiles hesitantly, “Law, and thank you.” She turns to Ron saying “Ron, you going to say hello to Pansy?”

And Ron goes bright red, mutters, “Bathroom.” And gets up. Hermione starts laughing and looking at Pansy’s raised eyebrow hesitates a moment before she leans over and starts to whisper something to her.

Harry takes his pint glass up again and flicks a look round the table. Neville, Ginny and Luna are chatting, Parvati has gone to the bar to order food but Harry can see she’s gossiping with Hannah.  This isn’t that bad. He’s enjoying himself.

 

҉

 

“Why hello Pansy.” George Weasley says, popping his drink on the table and spinning a chair round to sit on it backwards, leaning over and waggling his eyebrows in an exaggerated manner.

“DJ Wheeze.” Pansy replies, taking a calm sip of her drink. “I didn’t think I saw the Leaky on your gig dates you know.”

George smiles a wicked smile saying, “You look different, less day glow paint.”

“Didn’t know if you’d recognise me without it.” Pansy is twirling a strand of her hair round a finger and then her face relaxes and she’s smiling at him in a way that seems easy, open. As if she’s used to smiling to at him.

It’s a little after 9pm, Harry has had three pints, that one shot and two sensible glasses of water but he can’t understand what is going on. He looks at Ginny who’s moved next to Parvati but they are too busy to notice. Hermione and Ron are both watching Pansy and George, ostensibly the four of them where in the same conversation, but George had walked in and suddenly Harry feels like he’s watching a play he’s walked into during the second act.

George is leaning further forward towards Pansy. Harry can see his eyes are sparkling as he’s saying, “I’d always recognise you Pans, no amount of day-glow paint or fancy clothes can disguise that, that ..” Words seem to fail him here and he just waves his free hand in a gesture that seems to encompass Pansy’s whole self.

Harry looks at Ron to see if he knows what the hell is going on, and he seems to, at least he seems to know what George is going on about if his earnest expression and enthusiastic nodding-in-agreement is anything to go by. Hermione notices this too and rolls her eyes, “You idiot Ron.” She laughs and he looks at her, nods as if he’s waking up and suddenly gets up and goes over to the jukebox.

Harry is baffled. Neville puts a glass of Firewhisky in front of him and Harry sips at it without looking, presuming it was his water. It is this, and this alone, which is why when the door opens and Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy walk through it, Blaise yelling out, “Stop right there Parkinson, at least greet us before you dive into that louche’s mouth again!” Harry splutters and spits all over the table in front of him.

It certainly has nothing to do with the surprise at seeing Malfoy again. The tall pale blonde man suddenly both familiar and all entirely new at the same time. Shrugging off his cloak, nodding thanks to Blaise who was holding the door, for a moment his face is in shadow as he looks down and his lashes seem dark against his pale cheek.

Pansy has given a little yelp of excitement and jumped up to greet the other men, wrapping Blaise up in an exuberant hug. Luna is calling out to Draco who's standing, face unmoving, surveying the table. His eyes fall on Harry and linger there a moment, watching as Harry reaches for a serviette to wipe the table with, Harry has to finally look away so he can actually get his hands on the dratted thing and start mop up properly. He feels a hot flush of embarrassment and when he looks up again Malfoy is smiling at Luna.

 

Harry sips the rest of his Firewhisky silently. He’s not anxious. But it is all a bit strange. To be fair, his first night back out with his friends was always going to be a bit odd, so if they had to appear on any night, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy turning up tonight does seem to fit somehow.

He’s quiet amongst the noise of his friends and the other people in the pub. George, Blaise, Pansy and Malfoy are all talking together, George says something and they’re all laughing, even Malfoy. His cheeks are a little pink and his hair softer and longer than Harry remembers him wearing it. His eyes shine and his jumper sleeves are pushed up just a little, Harry can see colour splashed on his left forearm, something tattooed over the dark mark that must still be there.

He’s seen it on other Death Eaters he’s arrested, faded and mottled now that the magic that created it is dead but the mark remains on all of them.

Harry looks up and Malfoy is looking at him, his plump lips curved into a sneer. Harry sips his drink. Plump lips. That’s an odd thing to notice he thinks.

“Draco my supervisor told me about the funding it’s amazing!” Luna calls out from next to Parvati. Draco goes a little pinker and smiles at Luna.

“He’s giving away _all_ the muggle money, isn’t he?” Blaise says with a shake of his head but he’s smiling, “Biggest damn contract so far and he gives it all away.”

Harry is not following the conversation, but it doesn’t really matter. He can’t seem to stop looking at Malfoy’s lips, a little wet now as he drinks and runs his tongue along them.

Harry gets up and goes to the bathroom.

 

҉

 

He’s sitting at the bar, a water and a Firewhisky in front of him. It’s a bit loud now. There are quite a few people waiting to order drinks, there’s music playing and people dancing and Harry’s a bit scared to go back to the table. A bit scared to look at Malfoy.

But then, Malfoy is beside him.

Singing.

Harry swivels on his stool so he’s facing Malfoy, who, yes. Is standing very close next to him, waiting to be served and singing along with the music.

_“Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh, oh no no”_

Harry is shocked, “ _You_ know Beyonce?” He observes more than asks.

Draco looks at him, surprised, “Potter. I thought you’d slunk off.”

“No such luck Malfoy, I’m still here.”

“Hmm.” Draco answers and his eyes flick over Harry’s face and down to his body. Harry feels a prickle of something under his skin.

One of Hannah’s staff is there all of a sudden taking Draco’s order, Hannah herself is dancing by the jukebox with Ron and Hermione.

Malfoy finishes ordering and turns around, he’s standing almost in between Harry’s legs, leaning down a little as if he’s telling Harry a confidence, “Blaise had me drinking before, only way I could walk in here. Dutch-Courage.”

“Dutch courage.” Harry repeats the muggle saying, looking at Malfoy curiously. Their faces seem very close together he thinks.

Malfoy reaches out and takes Harry’s Firewhisky and sips it, eyes never leaving Harry’s, “Dutch Courage,” he repeats and puts the glass down on the bar again.

Harry touches a finger to the rim of the glass where Malfoy’s lips were. Plump lips.

He decides it’s time to go home.

Parvati calls out loudly “Oi Harry come help me tell Nev tell that story of how you busted the Kedar Gang’s potion dealing ring!”

Harry looks up from his glass, watches as those bloody lips turn downwards slightly, watches as an old familiar haughty look freezes over Malfoy’s features, “Don’t let me keep you from telling another story of how you saved the world Potter.” He sneers.

Harry feels like he's back at school for a moment and he looks at Malfoy without a reply, his brain a bit slow moving. Then the bartender returns and Malfoy is gone.

 

҉

 

August 31st 2003 : Maybe after 11.30pm but it’s not midnight yet - Time Is Running Out / Muse

 

Draco is drunk. If he wasn’t sure of this fact himself, the mirror in the Leaky Cauldron has just told him that he looks _'flushed and well in his cups.'_ He’d responded by asking the mirror when it was hung and said last week, but acknowledged that it was a fan of Regency romances.

Draco was in the process of rolling his eyes at it as he tried in vain to smooth his hair down. Not that it mattered too much what he looked like. There was no one here he wanted particularly to impress. A bunch of loud Gryffindors and Pansy and Blaise. Oh and Luna. She fell firmly into the family category these days. No need to stand on any ceremony or worry about the affect the overly warm summer weather in London was having on his hair.

“Find yourself a dashing young buck!” The mirror calls out as he leaves, “After all, it is a truth universally..” Draco lets the door shut with a slam.

 

Blaise had forced him to come. A three-pronged attack, firstly Draco lost a bet that Bulgaria would beat France in the qualifier for the World Cup. Krum unfortunately was not the undefeatable he once was. Secondly, Blaise had shown him a heartfelt owl Pansy had written him. When Draco drank he would play muggle records loudly on his charmed turntable, both of which he kept hidden at all other times, when Pansy drank she wrote emotional owls. These were often charmed to self-combust when she sobered up which has led to several scorched owl feathers and an unfortunate burn mark on Draco’s bedside table. But Pansy had written to Blaise about her new job, a massive promotion and one she deserved, but she was very nervous about her return to England.

“You can relate Draco, lord remember you were a mess when you came home.” Blaise had said, in his bold unsubtle way.

Then he’d taken him out to celebrate the finalising of the distribution deal into B&Q, bought him a fancy dinner which Draco can’t quite remember but thinks lamb fillet was involved in the main course, a bottle of Tempranillo followed by some lovely muggle Scotch and Draco has found himself in the fucking Leaky Cauldron on a Friday night with every do-gooder from school who’d gone on to work at the Ministry including bloody Potter.

 

When Draco comes out into the main room again the lights seemed to have been dimmed a little. There’s a feeling of warmth and a comfortable exuberance in the pub. Varying groups of people have been dancing all evening, sometimes from the table he is sitting with, and sometimes others from the Friday night knock off crowd. The Leaky is certainly a different place since Hannah took over from her uncle a few years ago. It’s lighter and cleaner somehow, and there’s that jukebox and some tolerable Firewhisky. Looking at the crowd drinking and dancing, the couple kissing in an alcove, a flash of Blaise's huge smile, laughing at something Pansy has just said to him, Draco thinks maybe he should get out more, be part of whatever it is that is happening. This different mood.

 

He picks up a glass from a fresh tray that Neville has just brought to the table. He cheers with him. Longbottom grimaces after having his first sip.

“Back to work tomorrow Longbottom?” Draco says by way of making conversation. "I'm looking forward to the work experience program this year."

Neville’s rather handsome face twists in a slight grimace, “Look, Draco, it's bloody brilliant that you have the kids down there, they love it in’all but tonight is my last night of freedom so less of that talk.” He waves an exaggerated movement of dismissal, but then almost instantly looks earnestly at Draco saying, “But I mean I love it Malfoy, the kids, my green houses, I do the Duelling Club which is great fun too, reminds me of when we first started the DA.”

Draco almost laughs at the almost instant shocked look that crosses Longbottom's face, “Shit, shouldn’t mention DA should I? Merlin. Sorry Draco.”

“Neville, you should mention DA all the time, it’s me, it’s the _Inquisitor Squad_ , that one is to be wary of speaking about," Draco pauses, "should be ashamed to mention.”

Longbottom bites his lip and seems to be thinking for a moment, “Long time ago though. It’s funny being with them at school, all so young, hard to imagine any of them going through anything we did.”

Draco holds his glass up again, “That they never do.” Neville nods his head in agreement and he clinks his glass against Draco’s before they both drink.

In a more jovial tone he says, “I should stop, but fuck, I can sleep it off on the train hey?” He smiles broadly and puts his arm round Draco’s shoulder both turning him around to face the rest of the pub and pulling him into his slightly larger body in some sort of a hug.

It’s quite strange. Neville Longbottom hugging him. Just another thing to add to the list of odd things this evening will be remembered for. That odd encounter with Potter number one. He's not sure what came over him really. Just a little brash, a little distracted by looking at Potter. He's not looked at him for so long. He looked both tired and also alive. Always alive. Thank Merlin.

Neville stumbles a little as someone moves past him and Draco is reminded where he is, “Ah, exactly Longbottom." He says joking along, "What else are prefects for, except letting the teachers nap off their hangovers on the train back to Hogsmead, while they do the patrols.” He suggests.

“Neville laughs, “Never thought of that, bloody good point though Draco, would have to have been a Slytherin who invented the idea of Prefects I reckon.” And Draco laughs along. But his eyes are pulled over towards Potter, standing looking into the jukebox, silhouetted by the light coming from the thing, his hair as unruly a mop as ever and his shoulders broad.

 

Draco remembers the train, in sixth year. He remembers kicking Potter. He remembers not caring about being a prefect at all any more by the end of the year.

He mumbles an excuse to Longbottom, who’s singing along to the music and waves him off with grin turning towards a man Draco doesn’t know who’s wearing a very creased Auror shirt, both of them yelling out the words to the old Weird Sister’s track that is playing.

Malfoy stops by the bar and orders a mineral water with lime, all the while watching Potter, who is still standing at the jukebox, but not moving the parchment scroll that lists the records available, just staring inside it.

Malfoy moves between the dancing bodies of Parvati Patel and Luna, and he thinks that the girl on his other side might be Katie Bell, maybe. He comes to stand next to Potter, the top of his left arm just touching Potter’s shoulder. Draco looks down at the jukebox.

“They get let out, there’s a door at the side.” He says and plucks a wedge of lime out of his drink and squeezes it a little more. Potter looks up and gives a small grin, and then looks back at the jukebox for a moment as if to check what Draco has said it true.

 

By the time Potter looks back Draco is licking the citrus from his finger and thumb, and he thinks for a moment that Potter is focused on that. But it’s hard to tell in the light and with Potter’s glasses hiding his eyes. Draco remembers them being quite lovely eyes.

Hmm. That was a strange thing to have thought he tells himself.

“They are a bit mesmerising to be honest.” Potter says, “I couldn’t imagine how it worked without electronics, but of course, fairies and charms.” He holds his palms up and shrugs.

“Honestly Potter, you’ve lived as a wizard for longer then you did a Muggle, in fact you're apparently one of the most powerful wizards alive and yet you can’t imagine how anything works without electricity. Lord, I saw you cleaning the table with a serviette earlier when a cleaning charm would have been quicker and more through,” Draco mocks.

He sounds strange to his own ears, spiteful where he hadn’t necessarily meant to be. He'd come over here feeling a bit warm, feeling glad that time had moved on and taken them all with it. But now he was acting as if it was 1995 all over again.

Potter looks sour, “Fuck off Malfoy.” He says, not much heat there, more resignation. But then he mumbles something under his breath, Draco thinks something like _‘fucking magic’_ but he’s not sure. Whatever it is, all of a sudden Potter is turning towards him and actually poking him in his chest as he raises his eyebrows saying, “And anyway, some of us don’t mind a bit of work, don’t mind doing things the hard way. Not just sitting around giving money away”

And Draco doesn’t really know what Potter means, it’s some sort of an attempt at an insult but it's a feeble attempt. He remembers Potter being wittier, a bit more sting to his retorts. He cocks his head to the side, “You ok Potter? That wasn't really up to your normal standard hey? Bit weak really” Draco lets his eyebrow arch.

Potter had glanced away, but his eyes sweep up, a little hazy and lids lowered. He’s got an attractive amount of stubble on his jaw and Draco wonders how rough it would feel against his skin if he was to kiss Potter.

This is a _very_ strange thing to think.

Potter is stepping forward and jabbing his finger into Draco’s chest again, “Oh fuck you Malfoy, you bloody rat. Prat. Pratty Rat!” His voice is little slurred but he looks proud of himself when he's spat his insult out.

Draco grabs the finger, holds it in place against his chest. Potter looks shocked. His eyes opening fully now and his mouth in a little circle. Draco lowers his face a little, he’s right in Potter's face now. He could kiss him he thinks. He looks nice when he's quiet, and in the gold light from the juke box Draco can finally see the green in his eyes.

 

There’s a moment where neither of them move, Draco watches Potter’s eyes as they drop down, maybe to his own lips. He presses forward on Potter’s finger, forces his hand so all of his fingers and his palm tip against his chest, his hand splayed out. Draco still holding him in place. Potter must feel his heart beating too fast. There is something very odd happening, hot sparks under his skin where Potter is touching him or something. He's drunk. 

The music is swelling around them, it’s something odd and different from the more pop tunes that was playing before. Draco wants to push Potter against the jukebox and press all against him. 

“ _Bury it, I won’t let you bury it_.” He can hear Blaise singing, with he thinks Pansy's Weasley. Which. Well.

Then fucking Pansy herself calls from behind him, “Boyss! Boyysss! Please for fucks sake snog each other!”

Draco drops Potter’s hand. Twists to look behind him.

Granger is standing next to Pansy, laughing in cahoots with her and Draco looks back at Potter who hasn't stepped back, isn't paying the witches any heed at all, but is instead looking at his hand as if he expects to see something there. Draco rubs his chest unthinkingly.

His own touch doesn’t burn the skin underneath.

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm [Silvered Glass](https://silveredglass.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you'd like to chat.


	4. Original West End Cast 1978/Blur

Early Autumn 2003 - Don’t Cry for Me Argentina / Original West End Cast 1978

                   

Luna and Neville arrive unannounced on a Saturday morning. Stumbling into the kitchen just as Harry is dropping his coffee mug in the sink and finishing off his toast.

In a moment of determined resolution to do some more of the things his healer has recommended Harry had changed his wards and reopened his Floo, both the kitchen and the drawing room ones. And so, he finds himself licking a small errant bit of peanut butter from the corner of his mouth and regretting his good intentions. Neville’s hopeful cheerfulness and Luna’s placid but unerring accuracy not really the peaceful Saturday companions he was looking for.    

Kreacher appears and is putting the kettle to boil and asking if Harry wants the drawing room opened up before Luna has even finished dusting the Floo powder from her strangely coloured robes.    

“Turmeric Harry,” she says. “They're dyed with turmeric. It’s amazing really, very settling. Parvati makes a lovely tea with it as well.”    

“And you dyed your robes with it?”    

“Yes, with the left-over tea.” She smiles in that serene way she has and Harry nods as if he understands and turns towards Neville, who is literally standing on his tip toes trying to look out into the garden through the windows over the kitchen sink.    

“Want to pop outside Neville?”    

"Is that the Spitting Hibiscus?" Neville answers in a dazed way and Harry opens the door out into the back yard.    

 

He's proud of the work he and the three garden elves he employed from the agency on Carkitt Market have done so far. The garden was as neglected as the house, overrun and desolate, the colonies of Gnomes had been the healthiest thing living outside. It’s been sort of cathartic to be able to channel his energy into hacking out clumps of weeds and overgrown half-dead bushes. He’s built beds, and dug holes, and basically laboured in whatever way the most senior garden elf, Fritta has ordered him too.    

In the start Fritta had seemed a bit surprised that Harry was happy to just go along with every suggestion that she had. But she quickly realised that Harry had no idea what he was doing and set him to work cleaning out the garden in a way that reminded Harry strongly of Molly Weasley getting them all to clean out the interior of Grimmauld place during that summer of 1995.

They’d made a basic landscaping design together, the three elves and Harry. Fritta had again, continued confirming that Harry didn’t want to maybe use a Wizard landscaper, saying in very worried tones that ‘she’s not qualified Harry Potter Sir, nothing official about anything I know at all.’ But Harry asked her how many gardens she’d built and she lost count trying to remember so he’d just said, ‘right-o, seems like enough to be qualified to me.’ And they’d got on with it.    

 

As he opens the back-door Neville almost pushes him in his rush past. Harry watches bemused as the tall man does a sort of ungainly almost skip up the path towards the bush, which despite it being Autumn in London, is still covered in vivid pink and orange tropical flowers. Flowers which spit a burning liquid at you if you try to cut them, or trim the bush itself or just walk within a certain distance of the cursed thing whilst holding a pair of secateurs.

Harry meanwhile takes his time. Just outside the kitchen door are four raised garden beds, which Harry constructed himself. They are to be for a kitchen garden and at the moment all he has planted are potatoes and rosemary but it’s early days and he shows them off to Luna. He also shows off the very nice brickwork in the thin pathway that he also built, on Fritta's direction, that runs between the garden beds and then up into the garden, Luna makes a polite noise but seems more impressed by the potatoes.    

Past the raised beds is a clump of different bushes and plants that act as a sort of barrier before the garden lawn. It is here that the dratted Hibiscus is planted and as Luna and Harry walk past, Neville is talking animatedly to Nini, one of the elves. Nini is looking up at Neville in almost reverence, a marked difference Harry notes wryly, from her normal expression of barely hidden exasperation which she usually wears while urgently explaining something about the importance of being delicate when pruning to Harry; or that the thing he is half way through ripping out is actually a rare cold-temperature Shrivelfig hybrid and that he needs to stop attacking straight away.   

They continue up the little path, Luna happily looking around and Harry points out the few plants that he knows the name of, so mostly he’s silent.

The garden beds narrow out to run along the fence line, with a few larger trees planted in front of the stable, and a large patch of grass. The path winds around the edge of this until it ends at the area of bricks laid before the old stable. When they arrive there Luna, of course, opens the old wooden doors and walks straight inside.    

 

The elves and Harry have cleaned out a good portion of the stable. Mainly so Harry could have somewhere proper to house them, their expressed preference being to sleep out there. It’s a magically expanded space and they haven’t quite finished the clean out, so over the area that they haven’t got to yet Harry had thrown up some wards in case there was anything particularly family Black-esq in there.    

“Harry?” Luna says, having complimented the curtains that Fritta, Nini and Dex have fashioned out of a Cannon’s beach towel and what Harry suspects was Slytherin quidditch robe, and strung across the front of an old horse’s box to create their nest behind, “those wards are vibrating, what on earth is back there?”    

Harry blushes, “Are they? Fuck.” He eyes the shadowy back of the stable. “It’s probably not actually anything that is in there, it’s probably me. I just threw them up quickly, my magic is still a bit, off.”    

Luna laughs, “I’d say it’s actually very on. Maybe we’ll recast together? Might be a bit uncomfortable in here for the elves, all that prickliness.”    

Harry nods and starts to dismantle the wards while Luna hoists herself up on of the high work benches. It’s peaceful, the sun shining through the open double doors, dust twinkling in the rays. Harry takes a deep breath and thinks about snow. Thinks about being cold and calm and he begins to cast a simple ward spell across the area. He counts his breaths and moves his wand deliberately and with precise gestures.     

When he’s finished and he looks over at Luna she’s smiling in her serene manner and she slides off the bench in a smooth movement, “Lovely Harry, soft but very secure. Feels cosy.”    

Harry allows himself a sceptical glance, apart from the horse stall the elves have adapted it doesn’t seem cosy to him at all, but that said, the shabby make-do-with-what’s-there look matches with the interior of Grimmald Place, which Harry thinks, is also not at all cosy.   

 

When they re-join Neville they find him lying on his back, looking up at the Spitting Hibiscus and counting. Fritta is scratching away on an old stub of a note pad and Nina is watching avidly. Harry sits on the edge of his wheelbarrow to observe, there are a few odds and ends sitting in the barrow and Harry picks up a trowel and tosses it in the air. The elves and Neville continue for a while, it’s peaceful. Mild weather; nice sunshine. He can hear Luna whistling something as she inspects the old garden furniture which sits on the lawn over to the left. Scrubbing the rust off the set is on Fritta’s list of jobs for Harry to do.

Harry tips his head back to enjoy the sun and spreads his arms out a little and he must sit on the barrow a bit too heavily as suddenly it tips forwards, its contents fling over Harry’s head and rain down onto the elves and Neville. Harry himself lands on the ground heavily. Swearing.    

“Fuck!” He shouts and a moment later the ground all around them turns to a bouncy pillowy surface. The elves and Neville start laughing a little and Luna comes actually bouncing over.    

She’s giggling as she jumps, “You must do this for Teddy, he’ll love it Harry!”

Harry grunts, “It happened a little late, think I broke my coccyx.”     

“Well I got sconed in the head with… What is this?” Neville says, reaching for the object that landed on his head. “Oh Quennel Wurm’s! Good stuff this. Got some from B&Q, closest place to Hogwarts for supplies you know.”    

“The muggle shop?” Harry asks, gingerly trying to stand up while balancing on the still softly undulating ground. The elves have copied Luna and are now jumping vigorously up and down on one section of the lawn and it’s making the whole thing a bit precarious. “You must be mistaken Nev, it’s some sort of potion, got it from Nettles, works on everything, wouldn’t be in a muggle shop.”    

“It looks exactly like the bottle I got from B&Q.” Neville throws the bottle back over and Luna who’s just righted the wheelbarrow and catches the bottle.     

“Oh!” She says looking at the label, “This is Draco’s, he is selling it to a muggle shop now, a big one I think, that’s where the funding for the new annex and the support staff is coming from.”    

Harry stops stretching out his back straight away, “Malfoy is selling potions to muggles at hardware stores to help them grow their roses?” He can’t believe it. But also, he can.    

“Well, noo.” Luna is looking at the bottle intently, “I mean it wouldn’t be a  _potion_ potion I’m sure.” She looks up at Harry quickly before dropping the bottle into the barrow and saying brightly. “So, Neville any progress on the Spitting Hibiscus?”    

“Luna!” Harry’s voice is louder than he meant for it to be, but he’s instantly angry. For fucks sake, it’s exactly like Malfoy; being arrogant enough to think he could get away with doing something like this. Only bloody Malfoy would think that skirting along under the radar for so long, and selling something as innocuous as garden fertiliser would give him a pass when it came to the Statute of Secrecy.   

Luna looks at him with her head tilted and blinks slowly, “Are you really concerned? Harry I’m sure Draco wouldn't do anything purposefully wrong, he's under a good magical behaviour bond for eleven years and thirteen months. He can't even cast more than a mild stinging hex without getting reviewed."   

"Luna, I know you think he's nice now or something..." Harry stops speaking, Luna has straightened her head and is brushing her fringe out of her eyes, her mouth set in a straight line. There’s a fierceness in her eyes.

"Harry.” She says and takes a deep breath. “Just don't."   

"No Luna!" Harry is frustrated, he’s got no idea why Luna is defending bloody Malfoy, or when it comes to that, why she always has to stick up for him.  "He might appear as if he's reformed but I bet he's just like his bloody father was, paying off the right people while getting away with whatever he wants."   

"Paying off who Harry?” Luna asks as if she’s genuinely curious, as if they are just having a nice chat about an article in the paper. Harry would have thought she was oblivious to his anger, except for that firmness in the set of her mouth. “Your colleagues in the Aurors? Hermione's at Law Enforcement?"   

"Come on Luna, everyone knows there are still dodgy officials in all branches in the Ministry!” Harry is waving his hands around a little wildly, he feels very unsteady and it’s not just due to the way the ground is still moving. But he finds himself unable to stop, something in his stomach is hot and bitter and he continues angrily, “I mean what the hell is Malfoy doing selling gardening fertiliser anyway? It’s bloody bizarre. It's probably a front for something. Some sort of dodgy potion scheme.”      

“Harry,” Luna interrupts him quietly, “considering his business, it’s not bizarre at all for him to sell fertilizer for Merlin’s sake. You of all people should know that.”   

“What? Why would I know?”

“Well, you have access to all his bond reviews, I remember you knew he was back in the country before anyone else did...”   

Harry interrupts scoffing, “Oh come on! I bumped into him at an Apparition point, outside my bloody office. And you know what, I tried to be friendly that day and the bloody git brushed me off. Just the same up-himself prat he always was.”

He looks at Neville, who is sort of frozen, still sitting on the ground just looking at both of them with a disappointed expression on his face.

Luna meanwhile is looking at him completely unimpressed, “Well he’s not selling a potion to muggles” she says with finality.   

“No, don’t think he would be,” Neville starts a little nervously, “you know he’s got the seventh years down there helping, they really learn a lot and it gives them practical credits towards their N.E.W.T’s as well.”   

“Oh Great! Perfect that is, impressionable young people who don’t know any better getting hoodwinked into breaking the Statute while they are trying to get their potions N.E.W.T.” He can hear how churlish he sounds. But he also doesn’t want to back down. Instead he pulls his wand out of his holster and turning away from Neville, aims it at the ground.

“Potions NEWTs? What? No Herbology Harry, he’s got my Seventh years I mean.”   

 

Harry walks around the lawn is casting his  _Finite Incantatem_  across the ground slowly and carefully. He’s not really listening to Neville, he’s starting to feel a bit embarrassed. Nothing riles him up like Malfoy. Even after all this time. And although he’s certain that there is something dodgy going on with whatever Malfoy is up to, to start almost shouting at Luna is pretty shit behaviour.

Once he’s finished casting and come back full circle to where she’s still standing by the wheelbarrow he reaches out and takes her hand. She makes a little noise of surprise but wraps her fingers around his firmly.   

“Come on, let’s test out how solid the ground is.” Harry says, and they start to walk round the grass together.   

The elves are picking up the garden furniture which had tipped over while they were jumping and Luna hums very softly as they make their circle, but apart from that they are silent. Just walking slowly holding hands. Harry likes it. Luna’s hand is cool. He feels grounded.    

 

When they come to a stop back in front of Neville, he’s flat on his back again looking up at the Hibiscus. He sits up and looks at Harry sharply, “All fixed?” He asks.

Harry feels his cheeks heat a little with embarrassment and says by way of answer, “There’s a squishy bit by the Flutterby Bush but I think it’ll firm up.”

Neville nods and after a moment smiles broadly at them both. Harry gives Luna’s hand a light squeeze and lets it go.    

 

They sit down and have tea, Fritta joins them, Kreacher looks insulted when Harry suggests he do the same. Neville and Fritta are still talking about the damn bush and Luna starts to tell Harry about going shopping with Dean for his dress-robes for the wedding. But when she’s describing the colours the boys have chosen for some reason she mentions Malfoy again and then Harry can’t concentrate.

 

That night out at the Leaky a few weeks ago he’d been shocked to see him. He’d dealt with it by drinking a bit more than he’d meant to and by retreating a bit. However, it had been his first night out in so long, he probably would have done both those things anyway.   

But he certainly wouldn’t have normally woken up in the morning with strange memories of thinking Malfoy had nice lips and wondering about the exact definition of irony. He’d contemplated for half a moment rolling off the couch to Floo Hermione and ask if it was ironic to be teased by a certain individual about not being able to imagine how things worked without electricity, but to then feel electricity emanating from the skin of said person when you angrily poked at his (quite firm feeling) chest while trading perfectly witty (no matter what said person had said) insults.   

Asides from the fact that even to his own hungover mind he sounded like an owl sent into the Witch Weekly advice column, Harry had also then remembered Hermione and Pansy yelling at him and a certain individual to kiss, so he hadn’t made that Floo call.    

But that itself had been very odd. Hermione and Pansy, flinty but polite at the start of the evening and then, well they’d all drunk a lot but still. They’d been almost a little giddy in a way. Bright and a little wild as they teased Malfoy and him and whispered to each other.

He’d asked Hermione about Pansy when they’d had their regular lunch the following week. She had not looked at him, but primly cut into her quiche and explained that as Pansy and George seemed to be properly seeing each other she was trying to make an effort.   

This George and Pansy being a ‘proper thing’ was news to him but Harry knew that there was more to the story. He’d sipped his beer and waited.    

Then Hermione had said slowly, “You know Harry you’re not the only one who got apologetic owls from people after the war.”   

Harry had taken another sip of his beer. A little thrown for a minute. That wasn’t the answer he was expecting, and he’d never thought about it before, but yes, it would stand to reason that he wasn’t.   

“Apologies, thanks, outpourings of grief, of anger. Guilt that a person didn’t do enough, I got sent a recipe for Trifle once. I know you get the same, but maybe larger amounts, but your ones all go via the office, don’t they?” Hermione had continued speaking, letting her cutlery rest now and looking at Harry questioningly. But she hadn’t really been asking, so Harry had continued to sip his beer silently let her continue to speak.

“Well, Ron and I get them too and ours don’t go via an office and Pansy…” Here Hermione had looked off to point over Harry’s shoulder and her mouth turned in a twist of a smile, “Well, Pansy is an emotional owl writer.”   

“A what?”

“She sent one so early, so _so_ early. I think it was when we were all still at Grimmauld Place, definitely before the Burrow was rebuilt; And we sort of somehow have ended up exchanging a few letters each year. I think it was cathartic for us both, they weren’t always friendly, but they were honest. And when she came back to London, well, I wasn’t sure.” Hermione had still been looking over his shoulder, but her eyes were unmoving. She’d seemed a little nervous and continued, speaking quickly, “Well I wasn’t sure if I should get in touch with her, so I didn’t. But I didn’t want to ignore her either. And then when she came to the pub that night, I wasn’t expecting it at all and I was a bit tipsy already and I don’t know...”   

“What did these letters say?”   

Hermione had laughed a little, “Well I said before Harry, apologies, thanks, outpourings of grief, anger at yourself.”   

“Well, that would make sense for hers. _You_ can’t be angry with yourself.” Harry had said, as if it was a fact. He’d been looking down, picking at cold chip slushy with vinegar.   

Hermione had sort of sighed then, and he’d looked back up quickly. Her face seemed a little pale, a little drawn in the midday light coming through the window.   

“I am not angry, maybe a little frustrated, but not about the past.”   

“So, you are frustrated with Pansy now?”  Harry tries to understand. 

“What? No, no. Not with Pansy, I meant just with...” Hermione had trailed off. “It doesn’t matter, and actually, now I bring up work I should get back.”   

“Hang on! Just fill me in, Pansy said sorry and that’s it?”   

“No Harry, Merlin! So black and white. And after all, I saw you and Pansy talking when she first arrived, you seemed polite enough and then you spent long enough talking to Draco Malfoy,  you two followed each other around the Leaky all night! Merlin, so much unresolved tension there.” Hermione had grinned sharply for a moment.  

Harry stood up then, saying with a light-hearted grimace, “Alright, alright, you have to get back to work you were saying.”   

 

So, while Luna moves on to explaining her ideas for her best-witch speech, Harry could feel it simmering underneath his skin.   

Malfoy, swanning around the Leaky like butter wouldn’t melt, standing too close and smelling nice. Well. It was odd. And the more he thought about the more he became certain there must be something dodgy going on with this potion. There was just no way Malfoy wouldn’t be doing something dodgy after all. He’d been too damn quiet for too damn long.

 

Harry has no sooner said goodbye to Luna and Neville by the Floo, waving them both goodbye with promises to catch up before Dean and Seamus’ wedding, as he is rushing into the hall way, and yelling to Kreacher to ask what he’s done with his sneakers.   

“Just leave them under the damn table in the entrance Kreacher why on earth do you have to clean everything up!” He yells at the elf who has Apparated into the hall way and opened the hall cupboard with a wave of his hand and is saying with a pointed nod to the neat row of shoes, “I’m a house elf Master Harry, what else would you have me do?”     

“Be free god damn it!” Harry had muttered as Kreacher turned around and shuffled away.   

His battered old Cons safely on his feet and he goes outside to the garden, grabs the bottle of Quennel Wurm’s Gardner’s Joy Tonic from the wheelbarrow where Luna had dropped it, and although it’s been years, and he last went there under the most stressful of all circumstances, he has no issue at all picturing the gates to Malfoy manor and sending himself there with a sudden crack.    

   

҉

   

The gate wants to know who he is. Being told he’s Harry Potter, the gate tells him he’s not on the list.    

“The list? What? You’re a gate to country estate not a door bitch!”    

The gate splutters. Harry has never heard a gate splutter before but trust bloody Malfoy to have a spluttering gate.

“Peasants using language like that would never be on the list of approved traders who I can allow access to the hallowed grounds of Malfoy Manor!” The gate is shouting now. Harry looks around, but it’s just stack stone walls and hedges, no passing cars or ramblers.    

“Look, um, gate!” Harry says using his no nonsense  _'I'm taking you for questioning no point in trying anything I defeated the Dark Lord don’t you know'_ voice he use to only bring out when arresting the most skittish looking purps; those who looked like they might try doing a runner. “It’s a matter of great urgency that I gain admittance to the manor.”    

“Not on the LIST.” The gate yells and suddenly there is a crack and an elf appears.    

“Mister Harry Potter Sir! Hello!” The elf says blinking big eyes up at Harry through the iron bars of the gate.    

“Is not on the list.” The gate’s mouth, conjured in the centre of it, is down turned, almost a snarl.    

The elf pays it no attention, “How can Lola be assisting of Mister Harry Potter?”    

“Hi Lola, nice to meet you, I was wanting to have a chat with Malfoy.” Harry says with a deep breath, trying to keep his voice even.    

“Of course, Mister Harry Potter is not on The List but Lola knows of Harry Potter. Lola’s second cousin on her Mother’s side was Dobby, Lola is knowing all about Harry Potter and you are welcome I am sure.”    

 

Harry looks down and blinks, feels that deep hollow punch that he always gets when he thinks of them all. Normally he says something generic but honest, something about how Harry was grateful to have served with whomever it was. How indebted he was. Normally he says the same thing each time. Each memorial. Each remembrance. He hasn’t been able to operate any other way.

But. Well.

He can’t about Dobby.

He says very softly, “Dobby was amazing.” And feels the unworthiness of that summery.

“I never knew Dobby Mister Harry Potter but this will be making my mother very happy when I tell her this.” Lola looks close to tears and something inside Harry feels a little almost jealous at how quickly the elf could access her emotions. Which he then feels guilty about. Feeling instantly guilty. Despite his ongoing trips to the healer he can do that one.

Lola holds her hand out and Harry takes it and finds himself passing through the gate as Lola says, "Harry Potter will be finding Master by the hedges this afternoon, Mister Harry must be excusing Lola now, Lola is helping with the planting in the west greenhouse." And with that the elf bows and Disapparates away with a pop.     

    

Harry shrinks his bottle of Quennel Wurm’s Gardner’s Joy Tonic into a size small enough to stick into the back pocket of his jeans and begins his walk up the long gravel driveway. It is lined the whole way along by a low hedge and Harry spends every single of the ten or so minutes that it takes to walk along the damn thing in expectation of encountering Malfoy at any moment.     

But he doesn't. Instead Harry follows the drive around a sweeping corner then up a rather steep rise and then around another bend the grounds open up and he comes face to face with Malfoy Manor.    

Admittedly last time he was here it was very dark, but.    

Well.    

It looks different.    

Huge Oak and Yew trees are growing around the Eastern side, tight up against the building. Vines of Ivy and Virginia Creeper cover every available surface, both growing up from the ground and tumbling over the balustrades and gargoyles on the roof to run down the stonework from above. Harry is pretty sure there is a large branch of a magnolia tree growing out of a double window on his right.    

The front door is open and Harry pulls his wand out of his holster and casts a detection spell for trick wards and traps.    

Nothing.

He steps inside the foyer. There's a hydrangea bush growing around what looks like a gilt-edged hall table, some type of snow sled covered in moss rests at the foot of it. Harry walks a little further inside the space and turns on the spot in a full circle. Vines wind their way up the bannister and fall down over the sides. The stairs themselves have grass and various wildflowers growing on them. Harry is pretty sure there is a pear tree by the large double door on the left and he begins to walk cautiously in that direction, past a suit of armour with its mouth guard hanging open and some type of Boronia growing from it.    

Ten or so minutes later and Harry has stepped through a French door that opens to a terrace on the side of the Manor. He doesn’t need to open the door though, he just turns sideways and steps through the empty panels, the glass long since removed. He walks to the edge of the terrace and looks around.     

 

The grounds here are perfect. The juxtaposition compared to the overgrown wilderness that grows unrepentantly within the manor is comical. A large grass lawn that is flat for a way and then runs up on one side to a small crest topped with a copse of small trees and is boarded on the other far side by what looks like a perimeter wall; Solid brick and running away for quite a length. Quite some distance away the sun is glinting off the top of what must be a huge Victorian style glass house. It’s still and elegant and refined. And empty.

Harry sheathes his wand and walks down the wide low stairs to the grass and begins to stroll up to the trees. When he reaches these, he pauses and looks down to the Manor again, the vines covering the brick work, many windows have branches growing out of them and there are some birds flying in and out of a window on the second floor as if they live in whatever room it leads too.    

It’s quite beautiful, and if the Manor had been a long-abandoned ruin Harry would think it made a very picturesque spot for a ramble and a picnic. As it is, it's quite bewildering and more than a little surreal.    

Fingers hovering over his wand he makes his way through the small cluster of trees and comes out at the top of a gently sloping bank and at the bottom, in front of a well maintained tall green hedge, Harry finally sees Malfoy.     

 

He's shirtless, and lifting a large pickaxe over his head and Harry watches as he holds it there for a moment, Harry can see, even from a few metres away his arms, the outline of his biceps curved and clear. Then a flash of colour on his forearm as he brings the heavy tool down and cleaves it into the ground.    

Harry is a bit gobsmacked. Malfoy is lithe, slender really, but strong and as Harry walks closer he gets another chance to watch Malfoy swing the pickaxe over his shoulders, his back muscles shifting and skin glistening slightly with sweat under the high midday sun.  He's about two metres away when Malfoy slams the pickaxe down for the third time, his body bending with the movement and Harry's eyes are drawn towards the curve of the other man's arse, clad inexplicably in what look like a very nice navy dress pant.   

Malfoy turns, wiping his forehead with the back of his wrist. His left forearm is covered in bright splotches of gently moving colour. Harry doesn’t know what to say. He can’t stop looking at his chest. His stomach.

Malfoy looks shocked for a moment, but it’s quickly shuttered. “Potter.” He says, and Harry could be at Hogwarts, the way he spits the word out.    

“You have no shirt on.” Harry observes succinctly, staring at Malfoy’s chest. There’s a scar that runs across his heart to just above his belly button and another shorter one that travels over the slight outline of his abominable muscles. Without thought Harry reaches out and ghosts a finger along the silvery white line with his index finger, his curved middle finger brushes Malfoy’s nipple and he jerks a little. Harry looks up at his face and Malfoy’s eyes are very dark.    

Harry swallows.    

“What I mean is, ah, you have a field of wildflowers in your dining room as well as some juvenile oak trees and I think several families of squirrels.” He says and lets his hand drop down to his side.    

“Yes, some Horklumps too I imagine.” Malfoy replies, his eyes never leaving Harry’s face.    

“Right.” Harry says sucks a breath in sharply, “I’m so sorry Malfoy.”     

“Oh, it’s ok, they may have been cleared out by now, I did release some gnomes almost a week ago.”    

“What?”     

Malfoy flicks his eyes away and back again, “No of course you’re not sorry about the Horklumps, it’s the scars is it?” He manages to sound both bored and cross at the same time, “I’m sure you have scars also Potter, should I arrive unannounced in your garden and start poking you and apologising for those as well?”    

“Well, no. You didn’t cause them?”    

“And you didn’t cause this.” Malfoy turns away and picks up his shirt from the nearby grass. He slips it back on. Buttoning it quickly and rolling the cuffs up his arms.

“But, um, in the bathroom? I didn’t know what it did.” Harry can feel himself blushing, he’s on the back foot. Malfoy’s stupid surreal Manor being taken over by a Disney movie’s worth of blooming flowers and forest and creatures, Malfoy just casually doing, of all damn things, manual labour. Manual labour with his damn shirt off! Malfoy all slightly glowing with health in the sun and yet with his normal haughty manner, with his eyes flashing angrily as he looks towards Harry.     

 

For a moment Harry wonders what it would be like to see Malfoy sweating and moving, shirtless but maybe not looking quite so haughty. To see him maybe a little bit on the way to being wreaked. Maybe just writhing under Harry, begging in some way, to see desire and need in his eyes, not annoyance, to see him undone.      

Malfoy has swung the hoe up and over his shoulder and is looking at him with his brows raised, “Exactly, you didn’t know. Severus explained. So, not your fault Potter.” Malfoy turns and starts walking away, speaking all the while, “I have no idea why you are stumbling around my grounds but I have work to continue so if you’d like to explain yourself you’ll need to follow me, and you might as well be useful so you can bring that wheelbarrow with you.”    

Harry looks at the wheelbarrow and sighs. It’s exactly like the one he has himself actually, which he knows to be charmed to follow the gardener on its own. But still, he picks up the handles of the barrow and trundles after Malfoy. 

 

҉

 

When Draco had heard the footsteps behind him he’d presumed Blaise had Apparated into the wrong part of the Estate, so when he turned and was met with the sight of Potter making his way down the hill wearing fitted dark jeans and a tight deep red t-shirt it was to say the least, unnerving. And if he was honest with himself it was as much because Potter looked fucking fit as it was that he was strolling unexpectedly around Draco’s grounds.    

Potter had been running his hand through his hair, t-shirt riding up showing a bit of a sculpted line of muscle running down to under his belt. The git also had a bloody wand holster strapped round his rather thick looking upper thigh.  It was how the Aurors sometimes wore them and there was something about it on Potter which quite frankly made Draco’s mouth dry.    

When Potter had come right up to him and touched his chest Draco had almost stepped into his hand. It was just like that night a few weeks ago at The Leaky, he could feel something under the path that Potter’s finger ran against his skin. He wasn’t sure if it was a trace of Potter’s magic recognising the scar that it has caused all those years ago, or just the fact, because Draco couldn’t pretend it wasn’t a fact anymore, Potter was attractive and Draco’s body wanted Potter, despite the fact that Potter was a giant oafish idiot.    

 

He's leading him along the path that will take them past his house and then down towards the seedling nursery. He's not really sure why he headed in this direction, but he was a bit discombobulated by Potter's arrival and his instinct was to move, to control the situation somehow.  But as they near the edge of the Ash clad barn he slows for a moment, he doesn't really want Potter near his home.   

"What, what's going on here Malfoy?" Potter calls from behind.    

Draco scoffs a little, " Going on? Are you here on official business? Investigating me for growing gladioli?"    

"Not official business, no. But I am onto your worm juice scam."

Whatever he'd been expecting Potter to say, _that_ was not it. Draco stops short just before the path they are following separates and goes around towards his house, he turns slowly and cocks his head, "My worm juice scam?"    

Potter drops the handlebars of the barrow and fishes round in his pocket pulling a bottle which he charms back to normal size with a silent, wandless hand gesture. Draco knows because he was watching Potter's stupid lips and they didn't move. He also didn't take his wand out of that stupid holster. On his stupid thigh.    

"This stuff, what is it? And did you really think you could get away with selling potions to muggles. Some fucking balls you have Malfoy."   

Harry is waving a bottle of the worm juice around in his face. Draco just looks at it baffled and then back up to Potter's face. His eyes are narrowed and his mouth is set in sort of firm line mixed with a snarl. It's annoying and attractive. Which is annoying.   

Draco uses a single finger to move some hair away from his forehead, in part because his hands are dirty from the digging he was just doing. He's itching to wash them but he keeps his motions languid, "You think this is a potion?"   

"I know it's a potion Malfoy, works on bloody everything doesn't it, what else would! And what's more I know you are selling it to muggles!"   

Some sort of sickening weight lodges in Draco's stomach. He knows there's no truth to anything Potter is saying. Knows this unequivocally. But he can't help but feel guilty. Feel hunted. There is a voice in his head straight away that says 'That's it Draco, you knew it wouldn't last. Time to be properly punished.' But he pushes down on the nausea inducing lump of dread and holds his hand out, strong and not shaking.   

"Show me this diabolical potion Potter." His voice is smooth, his heart racing despite himself.   

The bottle is half full, but it’s one of his. The label Blaise spent so long getting right, so long developing, Draco isn’t really sure why it mattered so much. But Blaise said it did. And Blaise is Quennel Wurm.  

Draco has simply created things that made this therapy slash lifestyle slash reason-to-be a little easier. But Blaise is a born business man. He’s not shackled the way Draco feels like he is. Maybe not afraid the way Draco is. Blaise just pushes through. Using charm and some sort of innate ability. Draco had been swept along by him. Allowing Blaise to suggest hiring people, allowing Blaise to arrange all that. The only personnel on site that Draco has ‘recruited’ are the Hogwarts students.   

Draco slowly turns the bottle over and then unscrews the lid, bringing the bottle up to his nose and then pausing just before he takes a sniff. "How do I know this is mine Potter, not something that you’ve tampered with, some sort of potion you've put in here." He's messing with Potter. The rude idiot. Two can play this little random unsubstantiated accusation game.

“What!” Potter’s face is a sight, his mouth gaping open and eyebrows furrowed. “Why the fuck would I bother?”   

“Well I could ask the same question, why would I bother?”   

“To make money.”   

“That I give away?” Draco says drily.

Potter scoffs, “As if you give it all away, if you sell potions to muggles your probably skimming money off the top of your charity bullshit too.”   

The nausea and dread goes. Washed away with searing anger. Fucking sanctimonious prick.    

 

For so long he’s just kept to himself, quietly made a life and a living here at the manor. It was unconventional. Shit the way it had begun was downright idiotic; wild to the point that when he told even Luna about it she had trouble believing him. But it’s life, it's his. He felt fulfilled in some quiet way. Not complete. Not whole. But he had walls - big safe walls and he operated just fine within them.   

Blaise drags him out for one fucking night at the Leaky and he’s on Super-Aurors radar and now bloody Potter is here, acting as if his testimony in Draco’s favour all those years ago meant shit. As if the years intervening mean shit. Acting as if any good Draco has done and is putting back into the world, means nothing because, well, because he’s Draco Malfoy so of course he's got to be doing something illegal. Something dodgy.   

 

He's beyond irritated. But if Potter wants to waste his time inventing schemes and casting accusations, then damn it Draco is going to make him look a fool. He keeps his eyes down, puts the cap back on the bottle slowly spinning it round in a circle with delicate twists of his thumb and index finger, then when he’s settled himself he takes a breath and looks up at Potter saying smoothly, “You’re right Potter. I’m selling the same  _potion_  to muggles as I am to wizards.” He pauses. Potter’s face doesn’t change, he’s watching him, waiting, but Draco can see in the corner of his eye Potter's fingers twitching above his holstered wand.   

"I'll show you where they brew it if you'd like." Still smooth to the point of sly.   

Potter gives a little indignant gasp, "Where they? Fuck! I suspected when Neville mentioned you had students from Hogwarts here but I can't believe it. Getting fucking children to brew your potions."   

It's Draco's turn to stand still, mouth a little open in shock. The leaps that Potter's over active imagination takes are startling to say the least. "Let me get this straight Potter, you think I get my Herbology work experience students to brew a potion that I am then selling to muggles?"   

"Herbology students? No.." Potter sounds confused and starts looking around in a somewhat absurd fashion, "What exactly is this place Draco? The over grown jungle in the fancy house which used to be a death eater lair.."   

And Draco can't take it, he'd thought for a moment it would be fun to play along, but no. 'Death Eater Lair.' He doesn’t want to think about the Manor right now. Ever.

Fuck it. He just wants the arrogant git gone. It's about a 10 minute fast walk through the grounds to the barns where they make the gunk and the compost. They built them near the far edge of the estate, much easier for logistics, muggle truck access and such Blaise had said. To get there he'd have to endure walking with Potter for that time.   

Instead he cuts Potter off before he can get properly started with his rant, stepping around the wheelbarrow and grabbing his arms. Potter stops talking, says in an odd voice, "Malfoy?"   

For a moment, Draco looks at his hands, pale against Potter's skin and nails dirty. He grips tighter and drags Potter with him as he Disapparates. 

 

҉

 

On reflection, it is possibly his fault that Potter has fallen into the compost. But Potter had been so insistent about inspecting every damn barrel they had in that god forsaken barn. And there really were a lot of them. And Draco had been both bored and cross.

But, he really can’t be blamed that Potter climbed the ladder up there.  

Well he can. He had told him to do so. But still Potter shouldn’t even be here let alone be climbing up ladders looking in oversized tubs of slowly rotting plant matter. So it’s his fault anyway.

 

Once Potter had finished spluttering and swearing at him for the side-along and actually looked around the barn, a strange look had passed over his face and he’d said, mostly to himself, “They’re all plastic, those barrels. Can’t brew anything in plastic.” Then he’d run his hands through his hair looking a little confused.  

Draco had waved his arm in an expansive motion and said, “Glad to know you learnt something in Severus’ class. Feel free to take your time Potter, being a Saturday I don’t think you’ll find any workers around, but inspect and intrude to your interfering heart’s content.”    

Potter had scowled then and drawn his wand while he walked off. Still muttering.   

 

The barn is large. Along one wall hangs two long rows of little worm farm tanks. They drain into a large pipe that feeds a holding tank from which the elves fill up the bottles of Quennel Wurm’s Gardner’s Joy Tonic. And on the floor of the barn is where the large and barrels of compost, at differing cycles of decomposition sit.

The elves can just Apparate to any point – easily perching on top of a wall hung worm farm when they need to top one up with scraps, which meant they'd been able to make use of space such as the barn walls, and had not had to expand the space magically which was good. There was already a lot of charm work going on in terms of the compost delivery to the wheelbarrows located in gardens across Wizarding Britain.

Draco had been amused for a time, watching Potter exploring. He wrestled the lids off the top of a few worm farms only to put them back on them quite quickly after having a sniff. Then Draco had watched curiously as Potter had closed his eyes and slowly but precisely cast some charms that Draco knew must have been Auror issue; Checking for dark magic no doubt. Draco had almost expected him to find something then. Sometimes he can’t believe the whole estate isn’t swamped in heavy centuries old dark magic. In a way, he knows it must be, that that is inescapable. It’s on the very bones of the place. In his very bones.   

But then Potter had muttered something that sounded distinctly like ‘Merlin’s baggy y-fronts there is really nothing here.’ And Draco had found himself stifling a laugh. The Saviour of the Wizarding World really was making a tit of himself. Draco couldn’t wait to tell Blaise.  

Although, the whole afternoon was definitely making Draco feel as if Potter had become a little unhinged. He’d read the git was taking time off work. Also that he was having an affair with Granger, but that seemed very unlikely. Also that he was going to pose for Modum’s cover in the near future, which actually he should ask Pansy about, but seemed that seemed most unlikely yet. Potter in a fashion spread. He was as elegant as a hippogriff.   

It was his mind wandering like this that had woken him up to the fact that having indulged Potter for the best of half an hour he was bored and had reached his limit.    

 

“Do you think you’ll be much longer with your unofficial Auror business Potter? I’d hate to think I’d have to contact the Ministry about harassment.” He’d called out, doing his best to sound bored and unconcerned even though in reality he was bored and pretty peeved. He was leant against the bottom of what looked like an oversized wine barrel but which Draco knew was actually the barrel containing second-to-last stage of decomposing compost, marinating and decaying beautifully.   

There wouldn’t be any point contacting Potter’s bloody department anyway. A vast majority of them would be happy at the idea he was being harassed and the others wouldn’t think to question golden boy over there. If only they could see him now, Draco had thought while watching Potter with his spectacles in his hand, crouching on a dusty wooden barn floor trying to look up a spout coming out of the bottom of one of worm farms.    

“What’s in that one behind you Malfoy!” Potter had said suddenly, standing up from his crouched position in one smooth quick movement. Draco did not think about his thigh muscles.    

And it was not thoughts of Potter’s thigh muscles that prompted him to say, in a false flustered tone as if Potter had stumbled on something he was trying to hide, “Oh no, Potter you don’t want to look in there, please don’t bother yourself with climbing up there.” With that Draco stepped back from the rather rickety ladder that leant against the barrel and watched Potter scoff and shoot him a knowing, slightly victorious look and then start rapidly climbing up the thing.   

Draco watched him climb. Might as well get some enjoyment out of this bizarre afternoon.   

Of course, it was then that the four elves Apparated in. Popping loudly and straight away beginning to bow and led by Lola, loudly started exclaiming; Wondering why Master Draco was visiting the bottling and compost barn and could they assist and apologising for leaving him waiting for so long but it was a Saturday and they only do a half day on Saturdays although they are happy to work more if he desires and as they bobbed around they must have in their slightly panicked very overly-helpful way knocked over the ladder and there was a sudden cry, much louder and definitely involving more curse words then the elves’ clamour and Draco had looked up to the top of the barrel and realised that Potter must have fallen in.   

He’d righted the ladder and asked one of the elves, Lola, to affix it to the top of the barrel. She had hung most of the worm farms and was very skilled with a sticking charm, and then he climbed up to look down on Potter.

Which is where he is now.

 

Looking down at Potter who is sitting on top of the mostly soil like stuff which fills the barrel. He’s sort of laughing, he looks a bit pink in the face and he says, “Is this shit Malfoy? Am I sitting in shit?”   

“No. I think just vegetable scraps and leaf litter, we outsource the manure supply.”   

“You outsource the manure supply.” Potter repeats, “I don’t know what that means but maybe it is comforting.”   

“For the Wurm’s refilling wheelbarrows, we make the compost in-house but we outsource the manure.”  Draco can’t help take in the lines of Potter’s body, he’s sitting leaning back on his hands with his legs bent in front of him. His body is elongated and slender and the material of his t-shirt is pulled tight across his chest. Despite the fact he is sitting in dirt. And the fact he is Potter, Draco would like to touch. He needs to get this under control.

“Malfoy.” Potter says, as he sits up straight and puts a tentative hand on the surface of the wet soil to try to hoist himself up, “Are you telling me that you run a completely above the board gardening supply business?”  He sounds very resigned; his eyes look very green and earnest behind his glasses. 

Draco just gives a gentle nod and hums an affirmative noise by way of answer.  

Potter gives a strange laugh and says, “Ahh, Shit.” And shakes his head. 

Draco isn’t sure how to respond to this. But Potter is having some trouble putting weight on his hand to stand up, the soil is too soft and he’s sinking each time. His hands covered in dirt.  

Draco holds his hand out to him and when Potter grasps it Draco says, “With me.”

 

҉

 

They land on the paved area between the French doors and the pond. Potter again spluttering and swearing and Draco, once he’s regained his footing, starts to take off his Wellington boots.   

“You can use the Floo here to go home Potter, assuming you’ve satisfied yourself.”   

“Hang on Malfoy, I do have something I want to ask, and to say.”

Potter is making as if he’s going to follow him inside. Inside his home.  He knew Potter would have to come in to use the Floo. But it was the quickest way to get him out of here. Get this whole odd incident over with.  It certainly hadn’t been an invitation to Potter to come inside his house and further his random accusations of pushing potions onto the muggle world.

Also, he doesn’t really have anyone over, apart from Blaise. And he’s not sure how he feels about it. Let alone having Potter. Let alone a sweaty and covered in almost-completely-but-not-quite decayed compost Potter. Plus, he needs to have a shower. The itch is getting too much.

 

Draco has stepped up into the house and he pauses in the door way to look back down at Potter. He’s dirty and annoying and has no look of concession or apology on his face. Just standing there as overly-presumptive as ever. And for fucks sake, he’s ruined Draco’s Saturday and insulted him and literally poked him. Draco feels an unusual spike of hot anger shoot through him. He normally does such a good job of containing himself. Doesn’t even consciously think about it really; it just goes hand in hand with behaving himself, with the fact that he doesn’t really feel he has the right to be angry about anything. But standing in the door of his home and looking at Potter, who is demanding to come inside, Draco gives way to it.

“I have tolerated you Potter, indulged you even. I should have tossed you out onto your belligerent arse hours ago, but if you think I am going to invite you into my house to listen to more of your bullshit accusations about my business and what I do with the donations I make to Mungos and for that matter how I treat the teenagers I have from Hogwarts then you are at full Lockhart level.” His hand is trembling and he feels hot. He feels like his cheeks are flushed. He takes a deep breath and times to calm himself. “Now I am upset, I am dirty and I am going upstairs to have a shower.”

Potter opens his mouth and shuts it again. The git looks flummoxed. Probably no one ever says no to him. He makes a strange coughing noise and turns on the spot and then back again. It’s almost amusing. So Draco takes another deep breath, and lets himself be amused. Let’s himself be anything but angry. That way lies trouble. Pissing of Ministry officials lies the way of more frequent parole reporting and invites further restrictions on the magic he’s allowed to do.

In a calmer but dismissive voice he says, “The powder is on the shelf built into the chimney, see yourself out.” And then turns and walks away letting his hand bounce across the tops of his dining chairs and then brush against the protective charms over his precious seedling which is resting at the end of the table.

He climbs the stairs quickly and he can feel Potter watching him. As he turns and walks along the mezzanine he glances down and Potter is standing in the same place, just outside the door. Potter turns his head suddenly, as if he doesn't want to be caught looking.

 

Draco showers for a long time. He uses a mint wash that tingles and has the water up a little too hot and he sings an off key and incorrectly worded but passionate version of  _‘Don’t Cry for Me Argentina.’_

There is a moment, when he is washing his chest that he thinks of Potter walking down the hill towards him. In his mind, he can slow it down. Linger on Potter’s bloody thighs. Linger over that look on Potter’s face as he stood in front of him, Potter’s fingers pressing on his chest; the way his lips parted and the slightly dazed look in his eyes. That strange charge which was there again as he touched the scars he’d left. There is a moment when he runs the soap over his balls where he wonders if Potter’s hands would feel the same sparking way if they touched other parts of his body… But he stops. He’s not going to wank off to images of Potter during the day.

That sort of thing is for lonely night-time wank sessions when he’s been having dinner out at Pansy’s and had too much French elf-made mead. The witch seems to have brought at least a year’s worth back with her and Draco is sure they drank at least three months of it the other week.

 

He plucks an errant eyebrow hair, applies a lovely cream that he got by owl order from Susan Bone’s new apothecary. She purchases a lot of her herbal ingredients from Draco and sent some product as a thank you.

He feels lighter. Refreshed. He will eat some late lunch. He will not mope that he has nothing to do tonight. He will work on his competition entry. He will not think about Potter. Unless to think about how irritating and stupid the man had been. Was. Is. He finishes drying himself and dresses.

He's putting on a soft slate blue cashmere sweater when he first hears the noise. He pauses for a moment and then yanks the sweater over his head sharply. Listens hard for a moment, but then realises it's the washing machine. Draco doesn't understand laundry but he knows it results in gurgling.

When he comes out of his room onto the mezzanine Potter is sitting at the dining room table. In his pants

Of course.

Draco can’t even say a word. He doesn’t really know what to say. He turns and silently walks downstairs. His feet enjoying the warmth of the wooden floor, his hands running down the wooden banister of the stairs feels altogether too hot though. He’s having some sort of dream maybe.

 

Draco walks into the sitting room area, goes to the long low sideboard and pours himself two fingers of Yamazaki Single Malt. He swallows them in large quick gulps. He pours two more, adds a ball of ice from the charmed ice bucket. He hesitates and then pours one for Potter as well. With a deep breath he turns and walks back over to the dining table.

He puts the glass down on the table and pushes it with a finger over towards Potter who reaches out and takes it while looking up at him. Eyes bright.

Draco sips his whiskey and looks at Potter.

Potter has a rectangle shaped scar on his chest, just above where his stupid Gryffindor brave-of heart must be. It stands out against his brown skin, even under the nice amount of hair that is spread across Potter’s nicely defined chest. It’s angry and pink. He has also got nicely defined shoulders and upper arms. One of his arms has a less angry but still large scar from a circular wound. Not so nice.

“Do all your scars have geometric references?” He asks absently looking at the muscles that lead to Potter’s neck. They make a nice dip in his collarbones.

Potter is taking a drink and Draco watches this. His throat moving as he swallows. Watches him lick his lips. When he finally looks at Potter’s face again the colour on the man’s cheeks is definitely a little deeper.

Draco should care. He should be embarrassed to be caught so obviously checking Potter out. But if he wants to sit in his pants at Draco’s dining table then fair play, Draco is going to have a look.

Potter tosses back the rest of his glass. The ice chinks.

“What is this Malfoy?” He asks.

“It’s not potion.” Draco says dryly.

Potter seems to flush a little more, “No, no that’s not what I meant.”

“Yamazaki, 12 years.”

Potter waves his hand carelessly and barely mumbles, “Acccio Yamazaki.” The bottle of whisky skids to a soft halt between them almost instantly. “Is it okay if I have another?” Potter asks belatedly.

“By all means.” Draco sounds arch as fuck even to his own ears. “Why are you here still Potter.”

Potter is splashing the whisky into his glass.

“And why are you in your pants?”

Potter caps the bottle.

“Your elf decided to wash them. I didn’t really have a choice. She sort-of charmed them off me? Without asking? I was going to come inside and use the Floo but your Elf appeared and said that Master Malfoy wouldn’t allow any dirt inside and if I was a guest of Master Malfoys I had to be clean and then I was in my pants?” He phrases it all as if the whole thing is a question. As if he’s unsure that what happened really happened.

Draco can relate. “I am going to give Momo clothes.” He mutters.

 

They are all free elves these days officially, but Momo has been there all of Draco’s life. She calls him master certainly, but she runs everything inside his home. Also. The dirt thing. Well that’s her protecting him. She wasn’t to know Potter was meant to be Flooing straight out. He actually can’t blame Potter. And he can’t blame her. In House Elf logic she was doing what she’d thought he would want. What usually he would undoubtedly want.

This is awkward, isn’t it?” Potter is grinning in a sheepish way. It could be charming, but it’s not. It’s all to odd for Draco to allow himself to be charmed.

Draco splutters. “It’s awkward and bizarre. This whole afternoon is like some sort of fever induced nightmare.”

Potter makes a strange noise, almost a laugh maybe. He rubs at his forehead and looks tired. “Ahh. Look Malfoy, about this all...”

Draco says nothing. Looks at Potter with a poker face.

He takes a sudden breath and says in a rush, “Fuck, look. I’m sorry Malfoy. I assumed the worst, based on nothing and I invaded your home and you have been most, ah, cooperative.”

 

Draco is a little shocked. Of all things, he did not expect Potter to just apologise. He thought he’d bluster around. Not admit fault, tell Draco to make sure to keep his nose clean the same way they do every time he takes his wand in for his probation reporting. Completely disregarding the fact that Draco hasn’t done a thing wrong since, well since he stopped doing  _everything_  wrong.

Potter says quietly, “It seemed to make sense in the moment.”

Draco sips his glass. “The house motto of Gryffindor.” 

Potter makes a strange loud barking laugh and then drinks rapidly from his own glass.

They are quiet for a moment. Draco wonders how long clothes washing takes.

“What’s that?”  Potter asks nodding to the end of the table where Draco’s Ice Cobra Carnation seedling is sitting safely nestled under an icy blue opaque layer of charms which can be seen swirling around the little plant.

“My entry for the Magical Plant Growers Guild Gold award.”

“So, you’re a gardener then? How did that all happen?” Potter sounds genuinely curious. 

Draco remembers that Potter has been inside the Manor. He doesn’t want to answer questions about that. Doesn’t want to explain how it started. Doesn’t want to explain that he’s not really a gardener. He just grows things. Or digs out new garden beds when he has bad counselling sessions, as he was doing this afternoon.

So instead he says, “Potter, may I Floo you your clothes? Send them by owl?”

Potter looks confused for a moment. Then sits up straighter in his chair. “Of course.”

Draco hadn’t noticed but he’d been slouching a little. As if he was comfortable.

“Once more, I’m very sorry about the uh, the intrusion.” He is speaking with a different tone of voice. This must be diplomatic Potter. He stands up suddenly. Draco finds himself doing the same.

Potter picks up his wand and folded harness while leaning across the table with his right hand out. Draco takes it and shakes without noticing. He’s too busy looking at Potter’s face, his voice so smooth and practiced, but his eyes earnest.

“It’s been.” Draco pauses. “Well as we said, it’s been, very odd.” Then he looks down at their hands as they separate, “Very odd.”

Potter mutters some sort of agreement and then walks around the table to the open sided fireplace, he pauses as he reaches up into the jar of Floo powder and looks back at him, opens his mouth as if to say something and then shuts it again. Gives some sort of a half salute wave thing and then steps into the fire saying, “12 Grimmald Place.”

There is the flare of green and Potter is gone.

 

Draco stands still for a moment, the washing machine gurgles. The sound of water draining floats through the barn. He feels a mixture of relief and residual indignation and a strange emptiness.

But also, what a tit. He’d really made a fool of himself had Potter.

He waits only the amount of time it takes to throw back what is left in his glass and he’s following Potter to the Floo, kneeling down and calling through to Foilis Terrace.

“Blaise! Blaise, are you there? You’re not going to believe the afternoon I’ve had!”

 

҉

 

Mid-Autumn 2003. Song Two / Blur

 

Harry is due for dinner at Ron and Hermione's at six but he's finished the undercoat for the new paint in the drawing room and until that dries there isn't much else that he can do. So he showers, trims his scruff with his razor that he's charmed to work without electricity, and while his mirror is beseeching him to do something with his hair the missing tiles above the toilet catch his eye.     

He wonders where he can get replacements for the lovely charmed glass tiles from. He wonders if Fritta knows anyone.

 

Ron is wearing shorts and a singlet and sweating a lot when he answers the door. Harry looks him over in alarm, eyes focused on Ron’s knee for a moment too long. It’s swollen and there’s a large scar running down the centre to the middle of his shin.    

“Mate!” Ron is grinning and wiping his face with a little towel. “You’re early! Brilliant! Just working out, happy to stop.”    

“Sorry, just a bit bored.”    

“Nah don’t be sorry, it’s great, just like before, you used to come over whenever, open invite.”    

Harry starts laughing before the words even sink in, Ron is laughing too and they both know they are thinking of the same mortifying time that Harry came through the Floo unannounced. Hence why Ron and Hermione’s place is one of the few friends house he Apparates to the front door of.    

He realises as he shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on the overloaded coat-rack that a month or so ago Ron’s gentle chastisement would have had him feeling shit straight away, guilty for not being around anymore, for not making an effort. And he does feel that way a bit, but it’s not the first thing to occur to him, him being a shit mate who lets people down and doesn’t deserve them anyway is not the overwhelming negative thought that he can’t escape from.    

Ron’s handing him a beer and telling him to turn on the wireless for the match and he’ll be down after a quick shower and Harry knocks the cap of his bottle and watches as Ron limps up the stairs.    

    

There is a moment after the Cannons have scored their third goal that Harry thinks might be a good time to mention it, but then Ron goes in and gets a bag of crisps from the kitchen and when he’s back the seekers are on a chase and Harry can’t interrupt that commentary.    

He glances at the clock in the kitchen as he passes through on his way back from the bathroom and there is only about half an hour before Hermione will be due home. Fuck, he needs to talk about it now.    

Ron’s rubbing just above his knee and he holds a finger up indicting to Harry to be quiet when he comes in the room, “Lee is on with the Chaser that got knocked of their broom before the sixth goal.”    

Harry walks over to the radio and turns it off.    

“Oi! Harry!” Ron cries.    

“You are rubbing your knee.” Harry stays looking the other way, looking out at Ron and Hermione’s neat little garden. “Your limp is still as bad as it was in winter and you're rubbing it, I think the damn thing hurts you must of the time. I think it’s not getting any better, I think you, your physio, Robards, the Healers at Mungo's, any Hogwarts student who’s passed their NEWT’s in DATDA knows you can’t ever properly heal from a dark curse.”    

“I don’t want to talk about it Harry.” Ron’s voice is low, hard in a way Harry has rarely heard.    

“Neither do I mate, fuck! But you can’t go back…”    

Ron cuts him off, “I’m not fucking leaving, when you’re back I’m back full-time that’s the way it is.”    

Harry breathes in through his nose, turns his head a little to the ceiling, still doesn’t turn to face Ron. “Always together hey?”    

“Don’t.” Ron says.    

“Always together. Fuck Ron. You’ll bust yourself into pieces trying to make up for...”    

“I said don’t Harry! You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about and you should let it be.”    

Harry finally turns around, “Don’t I know though? Isn’t that it? You won’t leave while I’m there?”    

“Oh get fucked Harry.” Ron stands up suddenly but gasps a little and sits back down grasping at his knee, “Oh for fuck’s sake!” 

Harry instinctively steps towards Ron who looks up and shoots him a look full of rage. Harry stops. He takes a breath.    

“Ok then, so if I said I wasn’t going back I guess that wouldn’t change anything? You’ll still keep putting yourself through this, still fight your way back onto fulltime active duty, no more part time desk? No more afternoons in the shop? No more home on time to see Hermione, and what about the fact she wants to…”    

“Harry, I said shut up and I meant it. Don’t talk about me and ‘Mione like you know what our plans are, like you think I’m stopping her from having a fucking kid!”

Harry had never thought this was going to be easy, but he doesn’t know quite how this conversation went so quickly to utter hippogriff shit. He sinks into the couch next to him and runs his hand through his hair scratching at the back of his scalp.    

“I’m not coming back Ron.”    

Ron rolls his eyes, “Oh shut up Harry!” His tone is utterly scathing.    

“I’m not mate.”    

“Bullshit, bit more time off, you’re already so much better, that healer doing you good, you look healthy, tanned and shit.”    

“Ron.” Harry tries to interrupt.    

“What in Merlin’s name would you do if you weren't an Auror?     

“But Ron, my magic.”    

“Your magic’s fine, bloody powerful, I mean who’d complain? Just need to get your head back in the game.”    

“Ron! Fuck!” Harry stands up and goes and looks out the window by the radio again. “It’s the ‘game’ that fucks with my head, why do you think it only goes haywire at work? Why do you think it’s only in the field I fuck up?” Harry obstinately forgetting about the teapot incident.    

“You don’t fuck up, it’s not your fault, no one blames you, you know.”    

“Ron, I don’t want to do it. I see them, all of them, I see the kids from the Honslow job two years ago, I hear that witch from York screaming, I hear Lavender Brown crying when we had to track her down and take her in.” Harry stops. There are other things he sees, it’s not all the recent work. It’s Colin Creevy’s little body in that huge hall. Sirius falling away. The look on George’s face at Fred’s funeral. The way Teddy looks already so much like Remus.

“Fuck.” He says, voice cracking a little.     

“You think I don’t?”    

Harry turns back around, “No, I think you feel it too. I think you process it better, I think you don’t avoid debriefing like I do, I think as well, well, I dunno.” Harry trails off, there’s a small flock of birds flying over a copse of trees in the field outside Ron and Hermione's garden, but apart from that no movement. It’s a still October dusk.    

 

Ron sighs, and Harry can hear him moving. Taking his time to push himself out of his chair, just managing to hide a small groan, Ron starts speaking as he walks towards the kitchen and Harry moves to follow him.    

“I know what you mean Harry, I think when they send you out, it surprises them when we don’t get a success. I remember the first time we came back when we lost that witch in York, I remember no one asked if we were ok, or what happened, every other case we have to have reports on desks within eight hours, but that one remember Robards just sent us home. It was so fucked.” 

Ron’s at the cooling cupboard, he pauses and looks at Harry holding onto the door handle. “It happened again after Hounslow and after that ship in Aberdeen, the one with the Centaurs that were being trafficked.”    

Harry grimaces. His third last case. He’d somehow ended up destroying half of a granite sea wall in small Scottish shipping village trying to throw an  _Incoursour_  at the escaping wizards who’d been running the trafficking ring. They’d killed their captives when they realised they were surrounded and then Harry had killed them. Downed or hurt in the explosion of rock, it was inconclusive.    

Harry feels sick. He sits in the nearby chair.

Ron slides a bottle across the dining room table to him as he sits in one of the opposite chairs. One end of the table piled high in books and notebooks, something Hermione is working on Harry imagines, Ron is looking at that end of the table.    

"So, you don’t want to do it?    

“I don’t.” Harry answers vehemently.    

“Do you want to do something else?”   

“No, it’s not that, I have no idea what I want to do. But this, it’s not the job for me.”

Ron starts to laugh    

“What?”    

“Nothing, sorry, shit. I feel like your breaking up with me, but not me, with the job. Fuck.” He shakes his head a little and takes a sip, “It’s just I don’t want you quitting ‘cos you think you’re saving me. Because you know I won’t leave while you’re there.”

Ron meets his eyes, there’s a challenge there. He’s waiting for Harry’s crowing ‘I told you so.’    

But there’s no need. The three of them know it, Ron would never leave again.    

Harry grins, “That’s not it Ron. It’s not actually all about you.”

Ron raises an eyebrow and says jokingly, “Isn’t it?”

“In this case it’s just about me.”

“About Harry Potter? Fancy that.” And they laugh a little. Ron flashes a grin. It fades quickly, but it makes Harry feel less ill. Less butterflies. There is strength for Harry in the way Ron reacts to things. Always has been.

“I don’t really know what I want to do but I can’t be in the force anymore.” He has a sip, more like a gulp and then barrels on, “I mean, I think I‘ll end up doing something, but I don’t know what. And I just, I can’t do this.” 

“Sure, you’re going to do something. Solid plan mate.” Ron nods his head.

Harry knows he’s kidding but he keeps trying to explain himself, he needs Ron to know unequivocally that he’s not quitting for him.

“I just I think,” He sighs. “I just kept going, you know, after the war, the training, the trials, us all going up to school on the weekends for the rebuilding, trying it all with Ginny, having Teddy every second weekend, I just I built a routine. But then Ginny and I ended, Hogwarts reopened, but not for us, instead we started work and somehow, somehow it’s become just going through the motions.”    

“Going through the motions? Harry, you work basically every day, or at least you did. Amazed you just kept on going really, it’s like you never stopped, ever since we left after the wedding...”    

“The wedding? Your wedding?”    

“Nah mate.” Ron shakes his head, “For years now Harry. Since Bill and Fleur’s wedding. You’ve never stopped. So, I don’t know if it was more going through the motions as one extended perpetual motion.” Ron makes a little huffed laugh, “Never knew what’d get you to stop, even Hermione didn’t know how to talk to you, in the end…”

 

But Ron is interrupted. Hermione’s voice calls from the sitting room. “Ron, why are you talking about Physics love?”

And a moment or two later she comes into the kitchen, wearing a coat Harry hasn’t seen before and with a plastic bag in her hand that Harry can smell is Thai. He gets up and swaps a kiss on the cheek for the bag and then goes over to get plates out of the cupboard while Ron and Hermione say hello to each other.    

"Hello Harry Potter, Hello Ronald Weasley." Says a refined voice and Harry turns from where he is stacking the pates to see Pansy Parkinson, a coat slung round her shoulders and two bottles of wine in her hands, coming into the kitchen.    

"Pansy, glad you could make it." Ron is getting up and leaning over to kiss her on the cheek and Harry wonders how much he's missed out on the last few weeks and months.    

Hermione comes over and picks the plates up and says in an undertone, "Your mouth is hanging open Harry."     

Pansy follows her, holding her hand out to Harry to shake. “Potter, lovely to see you again, and great to know you make house calls not just in your pants.”

It takes Harry a moment to grasp what she is talking about. But then he’s shaking her hand and blushing as Ron calls out “What’s that?”

“Oh, nothing Ron, just an odd story I heard. Many odd stories about Potter of course.” Pansy Parkinson winks at him then and turns to drape her coat on the back of a chair.

 

Harry has been trying desperately to not think about strange afternoon at Draco Malfoys. He'd acted a bit unhinged. Lost himself so easily in ghosts of themselves from so long ago. He's been scanning the gossip pages for any mention of it for the last few weeks, finding it hard to believe Malfoy wouldn't have let it spread by now.

“Can you fetch the wine glasses down please Harry Potter?” Pansy says sitting down and unscrewing the cap on the bottle. “New Zealand Pinot Noir, should be good with the Beef Randang, Ron you’ll enjoy it I’m sure.”    

“Course he will Pansy, it’s bloody wine, he did buy you some new glasses though after last time, make sure to be impressed.” Hermione is coming back over from placing the plates on the table and pulling some very fine cut crystal glasses out of another cupboard and passing them to Harry.    

Ron is very focused on taking the lid off the container of rice in front of him.    

“Oh Ron, the washed-out jam jar was fine last time.” Pansy is saying as she starts pouring into the glasses Harry has deposited on the table. She’s smiling and it’s all warm and jokey and Harry is confused.    

“I’m very confused.” He says.    

Pansy looks up and cocks her head, “Hmm, yes, well. By all reports of you being a super Auror apparently you're very good at deductive reasoning but I wonder if that’s been a bit off lately?” She has a knowing glint in her eye again and Harry looks towards to Ron who’s not paying them too much attention, peeling a lid off some vegetables now.

Pansy continues, “I always thought you seemed a bit blind to things right in front of you and had a feeling it was all dumb luck.” It’s said with sly smile and Harry realises she’s teasing him, not maliciously, just joking around. It takes a moment for him to process.   

As he takes his place at the table she passes him a glass of wine and her mouth softens into a proper smile. “No not dumb luck, more determination, instinct and good-luck isn’t it?” And for the first time ever that Harry has heard, her voice is soft.    

Harry takes the glass saying, “That was about it.”    

“Was?” Hermione says, but it’s a question. She’s sitting down herself now, across from Pansy and on Ron’s right.    

Harry meets Hermione's eyes and confirms, “Was.”    

 

Pansy is looking between them all, her eyes moving quickly all the while she calmly sips her wine. Ron had been serving out the rice but has stopped and is looking at Hermione and it’s very quiet for just a moment. The two of them still and watching each other’s faces.

“Maybe a bit of that famous Potter gormless charm. Bat those big green eyes and the cases solve themselves hey?” Pansy says, tone light and exaggerated while turning to Harry with a full smile and raising an eyebrow, “Flex those Boy Who Lived biceps and it’s all over Mr Crim.”    

Harry scoffs, “That’s it, I’m too good looking so I’m giving it up, no challenge.”    

Whatever has been going on between Ron and Hermione seems to be at an end because all of a sudden Ron is reaching over to pick up the foil bag that must have the Roti in it and saying in a voice that doesn’t waiver in the slightest, “Well that’s why I’m quitting as well if you must know Pans, too damn handsome.”    

“I’ve always said so Ron.” Pansy says a little too seriously to be actually serious, “I mean if Harry refuses to be my first male cover star it’s you I’m asking next you know.”    

“I’ll keep up the squats then.” Ron nods.    

Harry is still treading water way out of his depth. “Cover of what? Pansy, I don’t do interviews or pictures or whatever and look...” Harry looks round the table again, brow furrowed and exasperation mounting. "For Merlin’s sake will someone tell me why Pansy is here at dinner pretending Ron’s handsome?”     

At this Hermione and Pansy exchange a look and start laughing as Ron leans back in his chair grinning widely, “Pretending! Come on Harry, don’t try to deny it, you know I got up to number six on Witches Weekly hottest wizard list.”    

“Yeah in 2000.” Hermione teases while popping a bit of torn off roti in her mouth. “And Harry, it’s a bit of a long story, which actually has a lot to do with lists and certain people at this table thinking other certain people are attractive.”

Ron’s ears go red and Pansy sips her wine mock-demurely while Hermione throws another bit of roti at Ron.    

“Jesus. You said you were in touch but you’re all proper actual mates aren’t you.” Harry shakes his head and with a sigh he reaches for the wine bottle.    

    

Dinner is loud and silly. Pansy has wonderful stories about gala balls which sound much more exciting then Ministry events; Models falling into fountains, ice sculptures ranting as they melt. She knows who’s got magic in muggle movies and muggle politics and she’s obviously, if disconcertingly, fond of Hermione and Ron. Hermione is talking about her latest lobby group and trying to source more funding for it and how hard it is to find the time to write any letters to send to the Wizengamot, “Even with the latest lot of Copying Quick Quills I got donated I almost missed the deadline for submission about the last Werewolf, Vampire and Vela registration bill.”

“You should just do it full time you know Hermione.” Pansy says while she refills Ron’s glass messily, wine glugging in a manner that Harry finds satisfying.    

Hermione starts to protest that she couldn’t but Pansy puts the bottle down and blows upwards, mussing her fringe up, “What, Ron will have a pay out from work surely, and you’ve got funds from the medal and such.” Pansy waves her hand, for a moment, something uncomfortable crosses her face.

They’d all received payments after the war, with the Order of Merlin. Ron and Hermione and Harry alike.

Hermione sighs, "Yes. And I mean if Ron goes in proper halves with George we’ll be better off than ever.” She’s looking at the end of the table towards her tall piles of papers with almost longing.

“Well, we will ‘Mione, and if that’s what you want to do then we’ll sort it love.” Ron says leaning over to smack a kiss on her cheek. Hermione smiles but her brow is still a little creased.

Harry sips his wine. “How’d you meet George, Pansy?” He asks suddenly and Pansy turns to him. Her face bright and already laughing.

“Oh Harry, it was the strangest thing.”

    

Later in the evening Harry has stumbled into the kitchen. Ron’s playing britpop on his own charmed cd player that Arthur hooked up for him and for the last five minutes they’ve all been speaking in exaggerated Manchurian accents. They are all drunk. And Harry is hungry in that way you get when you're drunk and he’s picking at the left-over roti where is sits on the table and taking the chance to drink a glass of water.    

The first notes of _Song_ _Two_ ring out and Hermione is yelling, “Harry! Harrryyy come and whahooo with me, where are you!”    

Pansy pauses as she walks through the kitchen on her way back from the bathroom, “Potter’s in here, scoffing all the roti.” And she’s making her way towards him with her hand outstretched to for some.    

Quick as a flash Harry says wickedly, “Always giving me up aren’t you Parkinson?”     

And she freezes, then a strange rueful smile opens up her face and she says softly, “Touche” Potter.    

As quickly as he’d said it he’d realised he could have just ruined this all. One jest to close to home, one poke at an unhealed bruise. But as Harry walks out from the table and they meet in the doorway into the lounge room Pansy clumsily puts an arm under his, wrapping it around his back, her hand small on his shoulder.

“Secretly I used to enjoy it when you mouthed off in class. So sassy sometimes. Used to tell Draco you two would make a terrible couple, just judging everyone together."

Harry is watching Hermione, she’s got her hands up above her head and sing shouting, “When I feel heavy metal!”     

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “Terrible.” But it strikes him that something else she just said was a bit odd, his wine clouded brain can’t process it though. Pansy slaps him sharply on the bottom and shimmies over to join Hermione, her voice just as terrible but her ability to jump in what look like very tall high heels nothing less than admirable.    

 

 .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm [Silvered Glass](https://silveredglass.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you'd like to chat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I'm [Silvered Glass](https://silveredglass.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you'd like to chat.


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